A Cartoon Christmas Carol
by Looneygamemaster
Summary: Read the classic Christmas story, with great cartoon characters playing the part. Please read the author's note, before you pass it by. Merry Christmas!
1. Stave 1

Disclaimer: I don't own A Christmas Carol (a story everyone should read at least once), and I own none of the cartoon characters in the story.

Author's Note: This was an idea I had for a long while. Those reading in this section might expect another "Muppet Christmas Carol" redux (admittedly a wonderful movie), but that is not the case; I want this one to be quite faithful to the original book, while still keeping the characters' personality. For an excellent example of this, I suggest you read Super Hyper Mario 128 III's Mario Christmas Carol story—it's the best one I've seen on the site.

Although this story uses text from the original book, there is one line I'm using from the movie "Scrooge" (another excellent movie). See if you can find it—and while I'm on that note, see if you can guess the characters playing the parts the book doesn't name yet (Scrooge's nephew and Bob Cratchit).

A * means I used text exactly from the book. I'll try not to do that a lot.

Enjoy!

* * *

Stave I

Brain's Ghost

The Brain was dead, to begin with. There's no doubt at all about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Zim signed it, and no one questioned Zim, least they be devoured by giant mutant rats. The Brain was as dead as a doornail

…

You know, that phrase doesn't really make much sense when you think about it. A doornail can't be dead, nor can it be alive. It'd be much more accurate to say "as dead as a corpse", or "as dead as…um…another guy who's dead." Then again, those don't really fit well. Hmm…about "as dead as—"

"GET ON WITH IT!!!!"

Right, right, sorry. Anyway, for simplicity's sake, we'll just say that the Brain was as dead as a doornail.

Zim knew he was dead? Well, how couldn't he? The Brain and Zim were partners for I don't know how many years. Zim was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Zim didn't particularly care about the event, merely stating that he had been "a good businessman for an inferior stink-beast rodent."

This brings me back to the beginning. There's no doubt whatsoever that the Brain was dead. I know you're probably sick of hearing that by now, but it's one fact that must be made clear, or nothing will seem wondrous about the story I'm going to tell. If we didn't know that Hamlet's father was dead before the play began, we'd think that he was either playing a very dark joke on his son, or trying to drive him cuckoo. And if we didn't know that Son Goku's grandpa was dead, we wouldn't understand anything about the Four Star Dragon Ball's meaning to him. And if we didn't know that nearly every Disney hero or heroine had a single parent…

"GET ON WITH IT!!!!!"

Right, sorry again.

Zim never painted out the Brain's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: ZIM AND BRAIN. Some called Zim Zim and some called Zim Brain—until they were chased out by robot squids. That gave some motivation to remember who was who.

Oh, but he was a tightfisted hand at the grindstone, Zim—a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, maniacal, and mentally unbalanced sinner. Hard and sharp as flint; secret and self-contained, as solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his green Irken features, nipped the space where his nose would have been, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, and spoke out in his grating (some called it obnoxious) high-pitched voice. He always spread his own low temperature around him by icing his office and barely using any coal, even on Christmas. It didn't matter to him—temperature had little effect on Zim. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him.

Rich and poor people alike all avoided him—except the occasional idiot, who would invite him for tea, and receive a flamethrower as a response. No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, not of Zim.* Even the blind men's dogs seemed to know him, and would pull their owners out of the alien's path.

But what did Zim care? Let the earth stink avoid him! He liked being alone, with the only person worthy of his magnificent intelligence, charm, good looks, and modesty—himself.

Once upon a time—it was Christmas Eve, how about that?—Zim sat busy in his counting house. It was cold, bleak biting weather with fog coming in—but one would be colder upon coming into the counting house.

Zim had kept his door open to keep his eye on his clerk, a big brown dog, who sat trying to both copy letters, and warm himself at his feeble fire. Zim had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But as much as he wanted more, the coal-box was in Zim's room, and every time the clerk would try to sneak in for more, Zim would mutter some remark about "cutting down on my expenses by firing useless stink-beast clerks." Thus, the clerk put on his scarf and tried to warm himself at the candle; a futile effort.

"Merry Christmas Uncle Zim!" It was the voice of Zim's nephew, a chubby Irken only a little taller than Zim himself, who had come in so quickly that this was Zim's first knowledge of his entrance.

"BAH HUMBUG!" Zim shouted out of nowhere. Nonplussed (having knowledge of his uncle's behavior) Zim's nephew nonetheless continued the conversation carefully; the last time he'd aroused his uncle's temper, he had been on the receiving end of a rocket launcher.

"Christmas a humbug uncle? Now really, you can't mean that…"

"Do not tell Zim what he does and does not mean!" snapped Zim.

"Do you even know what a 'humbug' is?"

"Ummm…" After thinking for a few seconds, Zim decided to do what he always did when he couldn't think—shout.

"SILENCE!! Merry Christmas—pah! Why are you so 'merry?' You have no right to be, considering the status of your wealth!"

Un-offended, Zim's nephew simply replied with a small smile, "By that logic, you should be the happiest man in the world—but you're clearly not. Care to explain?"

Zim opened his mouth—and then realized he couldn't think of an answer. After having his mouth open for a minute or two, he closed it and merely responded with another "BAH HUMBUG!"

"Oh, don't be such a grouch, Uncle."

Zim scowled. "You expect me to be anything else when I live on a planet of idiotic Earth stink? Merry Christmas—poopies to Merry Christmas! What's Christmas but a time for paying bills without moneys, a time for finding yourself a year older and not an hour richer? If ZIM ruled the world," and here he paused to admire that lovely mental image, "every stupid Earthling who said 'Merry Christmas' would be boiled with his pudding, buried with a steak of holly through his heart—and fed to a MOOSE!"

"Uncle, really…"

Zim stopped him. "I have an excellent idea to solve this argument. Keep Christmas your way, and let me keep it in mine."

His nephew blinked in confusion. "But…you don't keep it…"

Realizing his mistake, Zim quickly replied, "That's what I said—let me…um…don't keep it."

"No it wasn't, you said…"

"DO NOT QUESTION ZIM!!! Bottom line: Christmas hasn't done me any good at all! It won't do you any good either!"

"That's not true Uncle. I may not have profited from Christmas, but I've always thought of it as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time**. **It's the only time I know of when Earthlings open up their hearts to others and to think of those below them as their equals. So, Uncle, while Christmas might not have put a single piece of money in my lap, I know Christmas has done me a world of good, and I say, God bless it!"

From the other room there was clapping. "Good speech, Mister Zim's Nephew! That was a good speech, definitely, definitely a good speech." Quickly, however, he silenced his noise, as his employer leered over, with a sinister smirk snaking onto his face.

"Tell me, clerk drone," he said quietly, "do you think you can enjoy Christmas without a job?"

The clerk gulped. "Um…I don't know sir. Definitely don't know."

"Well, make one more sound, and you'll find out! Understand?" The clerk nodded quickly and returned to his copying. Zim turned back to his nephew. "As for you, why don't you go into Earth politics, with the other empty headed blowhards?"

"Don't be like that, Uncle. Come and have dinner with us."

Zim rolled his eyes. "No."

"Oh come on! Why not?"

"Perhaps I'll answer that question when you tell me why you married that disgusting Earth woman."

His nephew shrugged. "I fell in love." Zim stared at him…and burst into maniacal laughter.

"HA HA HA HA!!! Love! The Earth term for sexual attraction! The one thing more ridiculous than a Merry Christmas!" Chuckling, he returned to counting his money. "Good afternoon."

"You said you'd answer my question if I answered yours."

"I changed my mind. Good afternoon."

"Uncle, you never came to my house before. Why use my wife as an excuse?

"Good afternoon!" Zim replied for the third time, his good humor evaporating into irritation.

"But I don't want anything from you. Why can't we be friends?"

"Good afternoon!"

"I'm sorry you're so adamant about this. I don't recall us ever having an argument--well, except for all those times you've hurt me. But I invited you in the spirit of Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas spirit to the last. Merry Christmas, Uncle!"

"GOOD AFTERNOON!"

"And a Happy New Year!"

Before Zim could rise to throttle him, his nephew had left the room, stopping to bestow the same greetings upon the clerk, who returned them eagerly.

"They're all mad," Zim muttered to himself. "My clerk, a working man with fifteen shillings a week, a wife and children, and still he talks of a Merry Christmas. Madness! MADNESS!"

"Uh, Mister Zim?" His clerk leaned his head forward. "There's three people to see ya. Says it's important, definitely, definitely important."

Zim waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. Send them in." But no sooner had he given his permission, than a large cloud of smoke suddenly burst forth. Coughing, Zim said, "W-what's going on?"

"Prepare for trouble—and social worker calls!" A woman's voice called from the smoke.

"Make it double—and give the poor a ball!" A man's voice answered her.

"To protect the world from economic strife!"

"To unite our cause and make it our life!"

"To give those less fortunate a place to eat!"

"And fashionable clothing for their body and feet!"

"JESSIE!"

"JAMES!"

"Team Rocket, blast off at the speed of light!"

"Surrender your donations now, or prepare to fight, fight, fight!"

A bizarre cat like creature dropped down. "Meowth! Dat's right!"

"Wobbuffet!"

Zim stared at the people before him, for once at a complete loss for words.

Jessie laughed. "Another spectacular entrance boys! It always leaves them speechless!"

Zim finally recovered. "And WHAT, pray tell, do you…whatever you are…want?"

James stepped forward. "I apologize for our sudden entrance. Do we have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Zim, or Mr. Brain?"

Zim glared at him. _Just my luck the robot squids are undergoing maintenance._ "As Mr. Brain died seven years this day, I highly doubt that you're speaking to him."

"Dat's a shame," Meowth replied. "But I'm sure his heart lives on in your business."

It certainly did, for they had been two kindred spirits. Zim, however, merely snorted, and returned to counting his money. The three looked at each other uncertainly.

"Well, Mr. Zim," Jessie said, "We represent TRAP-- the Team Rocket Association for Poor. At this time of the year, it's usual for us to make extra effort in our quest to find the poor some relief. Hundreds are in poverty, and thousands are forced to live out on the street, without a roof over their heads."

Zim looked up. "Are there none of your human prisons?"

James nodded. "Lots of those, sir."

"And the Union workhouses—they're still in operation, aren't there?

Jessie shuddered. "Yes. But I wish they weren't; they make the prisons look like hotels."

"Good! From what you'd said, I thought that something had happened to impede their functions." He then returned to his business, and the three looked at each other again. Clearly, this was not the response they had been expecting.

"Well Mistah Zim," Meowth continued, "since da poor don't have a happy Christmas most o' the time, some of us planned to raise a fund to buy them meat and cheer for the holidays. What should we put you down for?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing," Jessie repeated. "Oh—you want to make an anonymous donation?"

"No." A close look would have shown it to be wise to cease the conversation, as the alien's clutching fist showed rising temper.

Unfortunately, Jessie, James and Meowth were not known for their intelligence.

"I see!" James said brightly. "You want to pay in credit!"

"No."

"You wanna use Debit?"

"NO."

"You want to—"

"NO!!" Zim shouted, his short temper finally snapping. "I do not now, nor do I ever plan, to give my moneys to filthy homeless stink-beasts!!! My moneys go towards the establishments I mentioned, and they cost too much as it is! Those badly off should go there!"

Jessie's mouth opened in horror. "But they can't go there! Those places are brutal—many would rather die!"

"Good! This planet is already overpopulated with filthy putrid Earth scum! Now then, good afternoon!"

Jessie's horror turned to anger. "You little—I'm gonna tear your—"but she was grabbed by James and Meowth.

"We'll be seeing ourselves out then," James replied pleasantly, as he dragged the thrashing woman out, trying to calm her. Zim returned to his labors, with an improved opinion of himself.

Outside, the cold grew sharper and more piercing, as the fog grew in effect as well, providing a chilling, blind sighted view of the streets. Those in rich manors, and even those in average looking homes, were able to enjoy the fascinating sight in front of a warm fire—those on the street were front row witnesses, and had no such commodity.

One of the street's occupants, a young boy with two very large front teeth and a pink hat, stepped up to Zim's warehouse, in hopes of earning some money. But at the first sound of his squeaky

"_God bless ye merry gentlemen!  
May nothing you dismay_—

Zim pushed a button and the boy's singing turned to screams, as the security lawn gnomes suddenly blasted forth lasers from their eyes.

Finally, it was seven o' clock. Begrudgingly, Zim arose and informed the clerk of this fact, who excitedly rose from his desk, his tongue panting.

"You'll want the entire day off, I suppose," Zim said in a bored tone.

"Um…if it's okay with you Mister Zim."

"Okay?! Not only is it not 'okay', it's downright maddening! Were I to pay you an extra half-crown for the day, you would doubtless think yourself abused. Yet you don't seem to think the same of ZIM when I pay a day's wages for no work!"

"Um…" The clerk didn't quite know how to respond—Zim had used a lot of big words. "Um…well it's Christmas! Definitely, definitely Christmas."

Zim snorted. "A poor excuse for picking Zim's pocket every December the 25th." Nonetheless, he took the clerk's wages from his money, including those for tomorrow.

The clerk smiled. "Thanks Mister Zim. You're real nice, definitely nice."

"Yes, it's my one weakness. I'm a martyr to my own generosity." Seeing the clerk's blank look, Zim groaned. "Never mind, just get out! And be here all the earlier the next morning!"

Promising that he would (with many a "definitely") both men walked out; one in a happy gallop, the other in a cold strut. The clerk galloped out, and stopping at a slide in Cornhill, with a lane of boys, went down it twenty times, in honor of it being Christmas. Then he ran home to Camden Town, as fast as his four legs could carry him.

Zim took his usual gloomy dinner in his usual gloomy tavern (Irkens could not normally eat Earth food, but Zim had lived on Earth long enough to adapt), and having already counted his "moneys" went home. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Zim, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Zim, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if some wind demon sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.*

Now, before we continue, I must remark that there was nothing out of the ordinary about Zim's knocker. I must also remark that Zim had seen it night and day, every time he went out and went in, and also, that he had as little imagination as possible (except for his images of ruling the world). And I must also say that Zim hadn't thought once about the Brain, not since those morons had mentioned him.

So, let any man explain why, as Zim pulled out his keys, he saw not a knocker, but the Brain's face!

Brain's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar.* It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Zim as the Brain always looked—that perfectly cold, logical expression. Its white fur seemed curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid color, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part or its own expression.*

As Zim stared perplexedly, it was a knocker again.

To say that Zim was not startled, or even terrified, would be untrue. Still, he put his key in the door, turned it, and walked inside, holding a candle. As he went in, he couldn't help looking behind the knocker, half expecting to see the Brain's tiny body—but there were only screws and bolts. "Pah!" Zim responded and closed the door with a bang.

Now Zim's staircase was large enough for a hearse—a horse wagon for funerals—to get up and gallop back down again. That might have been the reason why, as Zim walked upwards, he thought he saw one going on before him in the gloom. The darkness was too heavy for him to make sure.

Up Zim went, not caring at all for that—darkness is cheap, and Zim liked it. But before he shut his door, he walked through his doors to check for anything. He had just enough memory of the face to do that.

Satisfied with his search, Zim took his little saucepan of gruel, closed his door, locked and double-locked his door (something he didn't usually do). Secured against surprise, he put on his dressing gown and nightcap, and sat down towards his fire.

It was a very low fire, hardly useful on such a bitter night, and Zim was obliged to sit close and brood over it, before extracting the least amount of warmth. The fireplace was an old one, built by Avery, Clampett, McKimson, and Jones. Its tiles showed various figures—rabbits, ducks, mice, chickens; and yet that image of the Brain's head came back to swallow them all up. If each tile had been blank at first, there would have been a picture of the Brain's head on each one.

"BAH HUMBUG!" Zim shouted, as he walked across the hall.

His eyes than wandered to a bell, hanging on the top of the hall, hanging with some forgotten purpose. It was with great astonishment, that he saw the bell begin to ring—softly at first, than loudly, along with every other bell in the house.

The sound might have lasted a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells stopped together. Quickly following them, however, was a clanking noise, deep below, as though chains were being dragged over the wine caskets in the cellar. Zim than remembered hearing that ghosts in haunted houses were known to drag chains.

The cellar-door opened, and the noise became much louder—on the floors, up the stairs, straight towards his door.

"BAH HUMBUG AGAIN!" Zim shouted. "I will not believe it!"

But he grew quiet and pale when, without a warning, it came through his door and right in front of his eyes. The fire leaped out, as if crying "The Brain's ghost!" and died out.

It was the Brain. The same white mouse, with a large head, and red eyes. The one difference was his size—Brain had been a regular sized mouse, but the ghost was large enough to come up to Zim's waist. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel.* His body was transparent, so that Zim could see straight through him.

But Zim did not believe it. Though he stared the phantom directly in the face, though he felt the chilling influence of its eyes, and observed the texture of the handkerchief around his head, still he fought against his senses.

"Well!" Zim remarked, attempting to summon his haughty tone of voice. "What do _you _want?"

"Much." The Brain's voice, no mistake.

"Who are you?"

The ghost rolled its eyes. "I no longer _am_, you green dolt. Ask me who I was."

"Fine—who_ were _you?"

"In life, I was your partner, and world-renowned genius—the Brain." He shuddered. "Though some gave me the nickname 'Noodle Noggin'".

Zim stared at him doubtfully. "Can you sit down?"

"I can."

"Then do it!" He asked the question because it might have been embarrassing if the ghost had been unable to do such a thing (ordinarily he didn't care for such a thing as "manners", but this was quite a different situation). But the spirit sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as though it were quite used to it.

"You don't believe in me." It was not a question—a cold observation.

The ghost stating it seemed to give Zim confidence. "No I don't! Zim does not believe in ridiculous things like ghosts!"

"Understandable. I myself showed a disdain towards the supernatural in life. Yet, here I am, right in front of you, able to be seen and heard. What other evidence do you need?"

"I—I don't know."

"Why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because," said Zim, "even superior Irken senses like mine can be fooled so easily. Some disorder in the squeedly spooch can make them—um, not good! You might be an undigested bit of beef, a blob of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato! There's more of gravy than of grave about you! HA! What do you say to Zim's razor sharp wit?!"

"I'd say it needs some sharpening," the Brain replied dryly.

Disturbed by this response (for it was so very like the Brain), Zim leapt to the fireplace and grabbed a toothpick. "You see this pick of teeth?"

"Yes."

"Well, all I have to do is swallow it, and be tormented by ghosts like you for the rest of my life! BAH HUMBUG I SAY!! BAH HUM"—

But he was interrupted as the ghost suddenly rose and began a horrible moan, clanking its chain together with such a horrible noise, that Zim could barely keep himself from fainting. Then, to his horror, the ghost removed its handkerchief atop its head, and its lower jaw dropped to its chest!

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Zim dropt to his knees, all his bravado gone. "Please stop, STOP!"

"Man of the worldly mind," replied the Ghost, speaking even through its extended mouth, "do you believe in me or not?!"

"Yesss, yesss! Zim believes! But why does your spirit walk the earth, and why come to me?!"

"It is required of every man," the ghost replied, grabbing its mouth and tying its handkerchief again, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men. If not in life, that spirit is condemned to do so after death! Oh Yes! It is doomed to wander through the world and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth and turned to happiness!" Again the spirit gave a dreadful moan.

Zim looked at the phantom in horror. "W-why do you wear that bondage? Are you—a prisoner of some kind?"

"A prisoner of my own design! I wear the chain I forged in life; link by link, yard by yard, I made and wore it of my own free will! Is its pattern strange to you?" The ghost suddenly came very close to Zim. "Or...can you guess the weight of the strong coil you bear yourself?"

Zim's face went the color of bad porridge. "I—have a chain like that?"

"Hardly. Yours was as big and as long as this seven Christmas Eves ago—and you have labored on it since. It is a ponderous chain!"

Zim's eyes darted nervously around the room, as though expecting to find himself bound by fifty feet of strong coil. "B-but I don't want to wear a chain! T-this is a very dark joke, isn't it Brain? Yes—just like my friend to joke with me." There was no reply. "Please, speak comfort to me Brain! COMFORT I SAY!"

"If you want comfort, go talk to Oprah," the ghost snapped. "Comfort comes from other regions, Zim, and is conveyed by other messengers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you all I would. I have little time—I cannot rest, I cannot stay anywhere! When I walked this earth, my spirit never walked beyond the walls of our money-changing hole and now, I pay the price! Weary journeys lie ahead of me!"

Zim glanced upwards nervously, and quickly put them downward again. "You—must walk very slowly."

"Slow?"

"W-well—you haven't rested for seven years?"

"Always traveling. Always suffering."

"You travel fast?"

"Like the wind."

"Well, I think you could cover this planet in seven years." But he instantly regretted his words, as the spirit again began to moan and clank its chain together. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please stop!"

"Oh captive bound and double-ironed," cried the phantom. "Not to know, that ages of incessant labor, by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused! Yet such was I! Oh, Yes! Such was I!"

"B-but, you weren't bad, Brain! You were a good man of business!"

"Business!" The ghost wringed its hands, as if in pain. "Mankind was my business! Kindness, mercy, charity, good will towards my fellow men—that was my business! My trade was but a drop in the ocean of my business!"

It held its chain up, and glared at it, as though it were responsible for all the spirit's pain.

"At this time of the year, I suffer most. Why, why did I walk among crowds of people with my eyes always turned down, never up, up towards that star which lead the Wise Men to their destination?! Was there no blessed sanctuary it might have guided me to?!" At this point, Zim was little more than a pile of green quivering goo.

"Hear me. My time is almost gone. I came back, out of pity, to warn you—you still have a chance to avoid my fate."

"Oh thank you, Brain!" Zim leapt upward in delight. "I knew you wouldn't do this to me, no, not to ZIM! How can I ever—"

"You will be haunted by three more ghosts."

Zim's grateful blubbering halted. "Um…is this the chance you talked of?"

"Yes."

"I see." Zim nodded. "Then, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass."

"I'm afraid that's not an option—without these spirits, you have no chance of avoiding my fate. Expect the first ghost tomorrow when the bell tolls one."

"The first ghost? Can't they all come to Zim at once, and get it over with?"

"Not unless you want to cut this story to an inordinately short length."

"…What?"

"Expect the second ghost the next night, at the same hour," said the ghost, as if it had said nothing. "The third, the next night, when the last stroke of twelve passes. Look no more for me, and, for your sake, remember what has passed between us!"

The spirit rose, and walked over the window, which, at the spirit's beckoning, opened. It rose, and Zim, in surprise, followed it. Suddenly, it halted, and pointed out the window. Zim looked—and his eyes widened in horror.

The air was awash in ghosts. All were bound in chains, like the Brain. Some had smaller ones, some had larger, but all had the same expression of misery—and all moaned. The Brain's ghost hesitated, than floated out to join them, its moaning joining in the terrifying cacophony that chilled Zim to the bone. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they disappeared—and the sky was calm again.

Zim looked out, and closed the window, his heart racing. Examining his door, he found it locked and double-locked, as he had left it. He tried to shout, "BAH HUMBUG!" but the words were stuck in his throat at the first syllable. Instead, without a word, he ran to his bed, and without undressing, went to sleep.

* * *

Sorry it was so long. The other chapters will be shorter. Read and review please!


	2. Stave 2

Disclaimer: None of the characters shown are mine. They belong to their respective owners. A Christmas Carol isn't mine either.

For Invader Zim fans, note that this chapter will have ZAGR. I'm sorry to those who hate it, but it's the only pairing I think would work in this story. I hope you'll still read this chapter.

I won't tell you who the Ghost is, but IZ fans should easily guess who it is.

* * *

Stave 2

The First of the Three Spirits

As Zim awoke, it was so dark that he could hardly distinguish his window from the opaque walls of his house. Struggling to see anything, he suddenly heard the chimes of a neighboring church bell, and listened to the hour.

"Twelve o'clock," he muttered, still half asleep. Suddenly realizing what he'd said, he bolted upward in shock. "Twelve o'clock?! THE BELL LIES!!! Zim went to bed at two!" He touched the spring of his repeater to prove the bell's lies—its pulse beat twelve and stopped.

"This cannot be! Could I have slept through an entire day, and into another night?!" Alarmed, he bolted out of his bed and scrambled to his window, to discern the surroundings. He had to rub the frost away before he could see anything, and could see very little then. All he could tell was that it was still very foggy and very cold, and that there were many Earthlings stirring about making noise.

Zim returned to his bed and thought and thought and thought until his "superior Irken brain" was throbbing with confusion. The Brain's Ghost greatly troubled him. Every time he resolved that the experience had been a dream, caused by a malfunction in his PAK, his mind returned to the same question that began the entire conundrum: "Was it really a dream?"

Lying in this state until the chimes had gone three quarters more, he suddenly remembered the ghost's warning of the first Spirit when the bell tolled one. He resolved to stay awake past the hour: a wise decision on the whole, as he could not have gone to sleep anyway.

To his senses muddled with fear and uncertainty, the quarter seemed to take an hour. Finally however, the clock's bell again visited his senses.

DING DONG!

"Quarter."

DING DONG!

"Half."

DING DONG!

"Three quarters."

DING DONG!

"The hour! HA! Nothing! Victory for Zim!!"

But no sooner had he declared this than a bright light suddenly came upon his room, and his curtains were drawn back.

Drawn back by a hand.

"HI!"

Zim jumped. Then he stopped. "Hi?" Drawn by curiosity, his eyes went upwards towards the figure.

It was a very strange figure. It stood shorter than Zim, with a body that appeared to be made of metal. Its head seemed bulbously large, and its small gray body gave out to two lanky arms and legs. It was dressed in a tunic whiter than Zim had ever seen, around which a lustrous belt hung. It held a branch of the purest holly, but in contradiction of that winter emblem, its dress was trimmed with summer flowers. And its face gave host to two blue eyes, and a rather silly grin, that all in all, made it look rather foolish. In fact, Zim would have never believed it to be a ghost were it not for its strangest feature: a jet of bright clear light which made all its features visible, and underneath its arm, a nightcap doubtless used for the light.

Even this, as Zim took another look, was _not _its strangest feature. For as its belt sparkled and glittered in one part, and then in another, so the figure itself fluctuated: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever.*

"A-are you the spirit whose coming was foretold?"

"I don't know." Its voice was high-pitched, as though it belonged to a child.

Zim looked at it incredulously. "You--don't know?"

The Spirit stared at him blankly—and then began dashing around Zim's room. "WHEEEHEEE!!! I'M A JET!!! WATCH ME ZOOM!" As suddenly as it started, it stopped, and reached into its tunic, pulling out a small slip of paper. Reading from it, the Spirit said, "I—uh, am the Ghost—um, of Christmas Past." It then tossed the slip into its mouth. "TASTES LIKE CHICKEN!!!"

Zim looked at the Spirit, a feeling of annoyance rising within. _If the powers that be are upset with ZIM, they can at least send me a competent ghost! _Suddenly conscious of the light on its head, which made him feel very uncomfortable, he said, "Well…would you please cover your head?"

But at that question, the Spirit's eyes suddenly turned red, and it pointed towards Zim. "No," it responded in a much lower, almost menacing voice. "Would you so soon put out the light that I give? Is it not enough that that you are one of those people whose passions made this cap, and have forced me through years of training to wear it?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about—I've never bothered you! I haven't even met you before tonight!" Now Zim felt a sort of fear, mixed with some indignation. "What business brings you to the house of ZIM?"

"Your welfare."

Zim snorted. "How kind. But I think a night's unbroken rest might be better suited to that!"

"Your redemption then." Suddenly its eyes returned to normal, and it grabbed Zim's hand. "C'mon, we gots to go!! We gots lots to see!!!" Over Zim's protests, the Spirit suddenly flew over to the window, dragging him along.

"STOP, STOP!!!" Zim shouted, wrenching his hand away, and the Spirit finally listened. "I am mortal you idiot! I can't fly like you!"

"Ah, don't worry. Jus' keep holdin' my hand, and you'll be fine." It held out its hand again, and Zim stared at it. Slowly, reluctantly, he took his hand out, and grabbed hold of the Spirit's. As he did so, they passed through the wall and stood upon an open country road. The city had entirely vanished, as had the darkness and mist it carried.

"Almighty Tallest! I was bred in this place, when I was but a smeet!"

The Spirit gazed at him. Its gentle touch, though it had been instantaneous, had somehow appealed to the alien's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odors floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten.

"What's wrong? You look sad," the Spirit observed. "Ooh…what's that?" It pointed towards Zim's cheek, which appeared…wet.

"Eh?" Wiping his face, he pasted a scowl on his face, and replied, "None of your business! Now take me where you will!"

"You remember the way?"

"Of course! I could walk it blindfolded!"

The Spirit's eyes turned red again. "Strange to have forgotten it for so many years." They instantly returned to normal, and "WHEEE!!! Let's go play in the snow!!"

They walked along the road, Zim remembering every gate and post and tree, until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Ponies were walking towards them with boys on their backs, who called out to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All of them were happy and shouted to each other, until the whole air seemed to be full of merry laughter.

The Spirit's eyes turned red. "These are but shadows of the things they have been. They have no knowledge of us."

The travelers came on, and Zim named each and every one. Why was he so happy to see them? Why did his red Irken eyes glisten with joy and his heart leap as they went past? Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry-Christmases as they departed for home? What was Merry Christmas to Zim? Poopies to Merry Christmas! What had it ever brought him?

"I think dere's one more little boy in the school," the Spirit remarked, its voice back to normal.

Zim nodded, and turned aside to conceal his tears.

They left the road and soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weathercock-surmounted cupola on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were over-run with grass. Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There was an earthy savor in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light and not too much to eat. *

Zim and the Ghost walked across the hall to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer by lines of plain deal forms and desks. At one of these, a miserable looking boy with green skin, and a black wig sat reading near an open fire; and Zim sat down upon a form, now weeping openly, for his poor forgotten former self.

The Spirit touched him on the arm and pointed to his younger self, intent on his reading, determined to lose the memories of his abandonment by his own people. Suddenly a man in foreign garments, wonderfully real, stood outside the window, with an ax laden in his belt, and leading an ass laden with wood.

"Mother of Irk, it's Ali Baba!" Zim exclaimed. "Yes, I remember! At that one Christmas time, as that lonely smeet read, _he _came to accompany him. Yes and Valentine, and his brother Orson, there they go as well! And him, the one asleep in his undergarments at the Gate of Damascus, what's-his-face: oh, and the Sultan's groom, turned upside down by Aladdin's Genie! Serves you right, stupid stink-beast! You had no business being married to the Princess!"

To hear Zim expounding on his friends from the world of fiction, in a curious voice between laughing and crying, would have astounded his associates in the city indeed.

"And look, the parrot! Green and yellow, with a thing like lettuce on his head; yes, Zim remembers! 'Poor Robinson Crusoe!' He thought it was a nightmare, but it was the parrot. And there goes Friday running for his life! Almighty Tallest, this backwater planet created some wonderful characters!"

Then, in a mood transition that would have been unthinkable in his usual mood, he returned to sadness. "Poor smeet! I wish…no, it's too late."

"Whatcha' wanna wish for?" the Ghost asked.

"Nothing!" Zim responded, with a very poor imitation of his usual temperament. "Just…there was a human boy singing Christmas Carols at my door. Zim should have given him something, that's all."

The Spirit smiled; as Zim was focusing on his former self, he failed to notice that it was a knowing, almost sly smile. In its normal voice, it responded, "Let's see another Christmas here, 'kay?"

Zim's former self grew larger at the Spirit's words, and the room became a little darker and dirtier. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked, plaster fell out of the ceiling, but how it was accomplished, Zim knew as little as you would. It was, however, correct; there he was, at another lonely Christmas, while all the other boys had gone home for the holidays. He was not reading, but walking up and down despairingly. Zim looked at the door, his expression anxious.

It opened, and in came a young girl, with pale skin, and dark blue hair. Seeing the boy pacing, she smirked, and taking out a slab of steak, tossed it at him.

"AHHHHH!!!!! IT BURNS!!! IT BURNSSSSS!!!" The boy's pacing became a frenzied run, as he dashed up and down the room screaming, while the girl laughed. Finally prying the meat off, he glared at her.

"HUMAN!!! How dare you do this to Z…" Suddenly he stopped, and earnestly stared at her, his expression turning from rage to shock. "TAK?! W-what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to take you home, moron."

"H-home?" Tak's smile grew genuine.

"That's right. The Tallest are tired of this whole "banishing" thing—they won't admit it, but I think they miss the commotion you caused. So they're lifting the punishment. Of course, they don't want you back _permanently_, but they won't object to you coming back every now and then, like for Christmas."

"Tak…this is wonderful! Victory for Zim!!!" Looking at her face for permission (and finding it) he embraced her.

Suddenly looming over them was the Headmaster, who glared at the two aliens with a half-sane smile. "Finally! You're going to leave this place! With no more students, I can use the entire holidays and my vast genius to search for…FAIRY GODPARENTS!!!!!!" At that exclamation, his body launched into a series of physically impossible spasms. Seeing the two staring at him with raised eyebrows, he shouted, "What are you looking at?!!! GET OUT!! Or I'll give you…an F!!!!"

As the two walked out, Zim twirled his finger near his head, and Tak snickered. The two laughed and shouted happily at each other, as they ran away from the school.

"I like her," the Spirit said with an idiotic grin.

Zim snorted. "You've obviously never been bludgeoned with meat."

"Ahhhh…you liked her too."

Zim sighed. "Yes. That is true."

"Too bad she died—but 'least she had kids! I like kids!!"

"She had ONE child."

"Oh yeah," the Spirit responded. "Your nephew!"

Zim seemed uneasy in his mind. "Yes."

Although this event had just transpired, they instantly found themselves in a city, where shadowy passengers passed, where shadowy carts and coaches battled for the way. It was obviously Christmas, as made plain by the decorations, but it was evening, and the lamps were lighted.

The Spirit stopped at a warehouse door. "You know 'dis place?"

"Know it?! I was apprenticed here!"

They went in. At the sight of a bizarre blue-skinned teenager in red tights, and black lightning streaked hair, Zim's heart leapt with joy.

"It's Freakazoid! Mother of Irk, it's Freakazoid, alive again!"

Freakazoid laid down his pen (he had been drawing doodles of a person his writing labeled Mr. "Spielberg"), and looked at the clock, which read seven. He jumped out of his desk. "It's Christmas!" Then in a bizarre nasally voice, he continued, "Oh, oh, I love Christmas with the tree, and the presents and little lights!" Returning to his normal voice, he called out, "Zim! Dib! Come on out!" There was a pause. Suddenly facing no one in particular, he said, "Be right back," and zoomed up his stairs in a flash of lightning.

Almost instantly he flashed back down, holding two struggling people in his hands; one with a flamethrower, the other with a rocket launcher. One was clearly Zim, who had grown into his teenage years. The other was a similarly aged boy with glasses, a black overcoat, and a single streak of black hair.

Zim's eyes widened. "DIB! I remember him! Yes, we were like brothers, he and I…"

"You can't escape me ZIM!! I'm gonna put you on the dissection tray and PROVE that you're an alien!!!"

"HA! Piti-ful threats from a piti-ful human…with an enormous head!"

"My head is not big!!"

Now, most people would have either attempted to solve this problem through either talking or yelling; at the very least, most people would have wondered why their apprentices had weapons pointed at each other. Freakazoid, however, was not most people, and without a single word or change of expression, he took a giant fish from his pocket and SLAM! Both boys were silenced temporarily.

"Okay boys, normally I don't mind your attempts to kill each other. Makes the job less boring. BUT…tonight's the big Christmas party, and you two are gonna show some holiday cheer to each other." An evil grin grew on his face. "Unless you wanna talk to Mister Hope again…"

He pointed to a door laden with spikes which opened, revealing a man with white hair, a golf club, and a blinding smile. "I tell ya, boys," he said in a Southern drawl, "your squabblin' makes the Three Stooges look like Mother Teresa." From out of nowhere, laughter at the man's "joke" suddenly arose.

Both boys shuddered. "Okay, okay!" Dib said. "We'll be good! Right, Zim?"

"Yess, yess. No need to bring out the Bob-worm."

"Good!" With that, Freakazoid dropped the two boys and pointed towards the tables. "Now get ready! Clear up the tables! No more work tonight—we're gonna PAR-TAY!"

With fervent energy, Zim and Dib cleared away the tables as though they were being sold for life; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night. *

In came a white mouse fiddler with a music-book, who went up to the desk and made an orchestra of it. In came blonde Mrs. Steph Freakazoid, one substantial smile. In came the housemaid, with her cousin the baker. In came the cook with her brother's friend the milkman. Finally, in came a girl with squinted eyes, purple hair, and an electronic device that she set all her attention to.

In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyway and anyhow. Away they all went, twenty couples at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them. When this result was brought, Freakazoid brought out a hammer, and struck a gong with a BONG! signaling the dance's stop, and the fiddler's rest. The fiddler plunged his face into a bowl of whiskey. But, scorning rest with a "NARF!" he continued again, unaware that there were no dancers at the moment.

There was more dancing, more food, at no set intervals; all was a merry, unordered chaos. In one of the dancing sessions, the purple-haired girl suddenly threw down her device, and marched over to the young Zim, who had been standing alone, watching the festivities. Her first words?

"You're going to dance with me.

Zim was taken aback. "W-what?"

"I've already beaten Vampire Piggy 3 five times, and I'm bored. So you're gonna entertain me."

Zim scowled. "ZIM does not dance with a filthy human." But his scowl paled in comparison to her scowl.

"I said you're going to dance with me. Now."

Zim gulped and saluted. "Yes sir!" and, with great hesitation, took the girl's hand to the next dance.

At the end of this jolly disorder, the high point of the festivities began. The fiddler began playing "Sir Roger de Coverlay." And Freakazoid and Steph stepped out to dance together. Fine couple, with stiff competition; twenty three or four pairs of partners who were no slouches at dancing.

But had they been doubled or even tripled, still Freakazoid would have outmatched them. Fast and with manic grace, the pair lunged, than lunged again. Now they were doing a tango; now a Western hoedown, now a Russian folkdance, now a Mexican Hat Dance, and now some combination of all those dances. All clapped upon conclusion, and Freakazoid bowed, this being the kind of thing he lived for.

The clock struck eleven, ending the party. Freakazoid and Steph took their stations and shook hands goodbye, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. When all had left but the two apprentices, they staggered to their beds under the counter; they had been drinking quite a bit, which explained their friendly grasp over each other and the words of praise they exclaimed.

During the entire party, Zim (the current Zim that is) had been acting like a man out of his senses. His heat and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, at the end of the party, that he remembered the Spirit, who stared at him with its usual blank smile, its light burning very clear.

Its eyes turned red. "A small matter to make these silly folk so full of gratitude."

"SMALL?!" Zim exclaimed with anger.

The Spirit held up its finger, as the two drunken apprentices were pouring out their soul in praise of Freakazoid. Then it shrugged.

"Is it not small? He has merely spent a few pounds of money—four or five at the most. Is that something to praise him so greatly for?"

"Nonsense!" Zim replied, sounding remarkably like his former self. "It has nothing to do with moneys! He has the power to make us happy or unhappy, our work a pleasure or toil. His power lies not in moneys, but the small things; things that are so small, they cannot be added up—and the result is happiness as great as if it cost a fortune!"

At that, Zim stopped.

"What is it?" the Spirit asked, its voice back to normal.

"It's nothing…"

"No, I think it's somethin'…"

"I said it's nothing!" Zim exclaimed. "I just…would like to say something to my clerk. That's all."

His former self turned down the lamps as he said this, and again Zim and the Ghost stood side by side in the open air.

"Uh oh, the Scary Monkey Show's almost on!" the Spirit exclaimed. "We gotta finish quick!"

This was not addressed to Zim, or anyone else he could see, but it had an immediate effect. Again Zim saw himself—older, in the prime of his life. His face lacked the harsh, rigid lines of later years, but it had begun to wear the signs of avarice and greed. There was a restless passion in his eyes, which showed the passion which had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall.

Sitting aside from him was the purple haired girl from the party—older, but still very much the same. Though her face was still hard and scowling, the Spirit's light illuminated unshed tears.

"You can't change my mind, Zim. No force on Earth can do that. I'm leaving and that's that."

"Why?!" he exclaimed. "If my love-pig is leaving, I should at least know the reason why!"

"It wouldn't make a difference." But she sighed, and said, "Fine, I'll tell you. You love someone else now."

"LIES!!! Who said that?!!! Zim will give them nightmares while they are awake! Who else do I love?!"

"This." She took her hand into a nearby balance, and held up several gold coins, which she dropped back through her fingers. Zim stared at her with incomprehension—but the look soon gave way to understanding, and frustration.

"Oh Almighty Tallest, not this again. You think I cannot have you, and moneys at the same time?"

"Not the way you do."

"It's this planet's fault, not Zim's!" he exclaimed. "It's madness! This planet frowns on those who have nothing, but it instantly condemns those who pursue something!"

The girl scowled. "The Zim I knew didn't care about what 'this stinky planet' thought about him. You do. I've watched you, watched all your goals fall out, one by one, until only the pursuit of wealth remains."

"Even if I have grown more accustomed to Earth's way, I have not changed towards you!" He paused, then asked, quietly, "Have I?"

"When we met, we were content with our fortune, until we could make enough to live comfortably. But it's still not enough for you. You've changed."

"But I was young! Practically a smeet!"

"See? You admit it—you're not the person I met." He began to speak, but the girl cut him off. "No. There's no point arguing. It's enough that I have the power to release you."

He looked down in anguish. "Zim has…never asked to be released."

"Not in words, no."

"In what then?"

"I'll answer that question with one of my own. If you had met me today, a girl with barely any fortune, would you still want me?" She gazed evenly at him, evenly—until he could bear her gaze no more and looked away. She nodded. "I thought so."

"But you don't know that!"

She stared down momentarily weakening. "Do you think I haven't thought otherwise? I've wanted it to be otherwise, ever since I knew the truth. I really did…" Then she gazed upon him again, her hard gaze returning. "But I can't believe that you would marry a poor girl, without regretting it afterwards. So…for the love of who you used to be, I release you."

She walked towards the exit door, and Zim, who had only seen her back at that time, saw tears streaming down her face. But her voice never broke—it carried through with determined strength.

"You'll probably be sad about this, but it'll pass. And then, you'll dismiss it as a dream, an idiotic dream that you were happy to wake up from." As she left, she said, in a softer, almost indiscernible voice, "May you be happy with the life you've chosen."

She left him and they parted.

"Enough," Zim said, and now tears had begun to spring forth. "Enough! I will see no more, Spirit! No more I say!"

"We got jus' one more…"

"NO!" But the Spirit grabbed Zim with unnatural strength, and forced him to observe the final shadow.

They were in another room; not very handsome, but full of comfort. Near the fire sat a girl, a girl so like the last that Zim thought it was the same; until he saw _her_, a mother, sitting opposite her daughter. The noise in the room was tumultuous, caused by more children than Zim, in his agitated state of mind, could count. There was noise and commotion beyond belief, but it bothered her not; no, in fact, she and her daughter both snickered at the latter's revenge prank on one of her brothers.

Now came a knocking at the door, and the daughter led a large and boisterous group, surrounding the father, whose arms were full of Christmas toys and presents. Then the shouting and the struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the defenseless porter. The scaling him with chairs for ladders to dive into his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by his cravat, hug him round his neck, pommel his back, and kick his legs in irrepressible affection. The shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received. The terrible announcement that the baby had been taken in the act of putting a doll's frying-pan into his mouth, and was more than suspected of having swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued on a wooden platter. The immense relief of finding this a false alarm. The joy, and gratitude, and ecstasy. They are all indescribable alike. It is enough that by degrees the children and their emotions got out of the parlor and by one stair at a time, up to the top of the house; where they went to bed, and so subsided. *

And now Zim looked more attentively than ever when the father, with the daughter leaning fondly on him, sat down with her mother at his own fireside. At the thought that such another creature, as graceful and full of promise as this one, might have called _him _father, his sight grew very dim indeed.

"Gaz," said the husband. "I saw an old friend of yours today. Guess who it was."

"Well…" She took a mock-thinking position. "Offhand, I'd say…Mr. Zim?"

"It was. I passed his office window, and saw him by candlelight. His partner lies on the verge of death; he sat with him alone. Poor devil—he seems quite alone in the world."

"Spirit!" exclaimed Zim, now unable to control his tears. "Why?! Why do you delight in torturing me so?!"

"Huh?" The Spirit looked confused. "But I told you, these are just shadows of the past. It's not my fault they're like this…"

"ENOUGH!!!!" Grabbing the Spirit (who made no effort to resist), he suddenly noticed the its light. Remembering the nightcap, he grabbed it from the Spirit's shoulder, shouted, "HAUNT ZIM NO MORE!!" and thrust it down upon its head.

The Spirit dropped beneath it, so that its entire form was covered, but Zim with all his strength, could not conceal its light, which streamed down from underneath it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground.

Suddenly conscious of an irresistible drowsiness, and further, being in his own bedroom, Zim gave the cap a parting squeeze, and barely had time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.

* * *

Silly me, thinking that these chapters would be shorter.

Anyway, I changed a few small things from the original story, mostly to relate more to Zim himself. The biggest change was the scene with the Headmaster; in the story, he congratulated Scrooge, and saw him out. But I really wanted to put Crocker in the story, and I couldn't see him doing that.

Well, please read and review! Even if you don't like it, at least tell me what I can do better!


	3. Stave 3

Disclaimer: As previously said, I own neither any of the cartoon characters in the story, or A Christmas Carol.

As always, I'm not going to say who the Ghost is; depending on if you watched 90s cartoons, you may or may not recognize him. In any case, this chapter should be a lot more fun than the last one. So enjoy!

Also, for those who've seen the movie, see if you can spot the Scrooge reference (the musical with Albert Finney and Alec Guiness)

* * *

Stave 3

The Second of the Three Spirits

Awakening in the middle of a troubled dream, and sitting up in bed to collect his thoughts, Zim had no need to be told that the bell was again on the stroke of one. Obviously, as with the last occurance, he had awoken just in time to welcome the second visitation of which the Brain's Ghost had spoken of. Feeling uncomfortable when he thought of another hand pulling back his curtains, he put each one aside himself, while pulling an Atomic Dissociator Ray gun from underneath his bed, keeping a sharp look-out all around his bed. The gun was mostly for show rather than force (mostly because he knew ghosts couldn't be shot); he was determined that this Ghost would not take him by surprise. And after his previous visitor, Zim felt that he was prepared for anything.

Being prepared for anything, however, he was understandably not prepared for nothing. Thus as the bell struck One, and nothing appeared, he began to shake uncontrollably. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter—still nothing. At this point, however, he noticed a bright light, which he assumed had begun at the stroke of One, and was growing steadily brighter until it was blinding. Being only light, it was more frightening than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant; at one point, he wondered if he was undergoing a bizarre case of spontaneous combustion. At last, however, he realized—as you or I would—that the light was coming from the adjoining room, where the source was likely to be. The idea taking full possession of his mind, he softly arose from his bed, dropping his ray gun (the idea seemed foolish now) and shuffled over to the door.

The moment he touched the handle, a loud voice boomed forth from within, "Well, hurry up! Are you coming in already, or do I have to go in there after you?" Zim shook his head violently, temporarily forgetting that he couldn't be seen on the other side of the door, and entered.

It was his own room, and yet it was not. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green that it looked like a grove, from which every part, berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if many mirrors had been scattered, and from the fireplace, a fire roared that had never been heard of in Zim's, or the Brian's, time. Heaped up on the floor, forming a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam.* Zim still found human food somewhat revolting, but the aromas of that magnificent feast was beyond earthly measure, and aroused his appetite and salivitory gland.

And sitting upon this couch sat what could only be described as a giant…Thingy. Yes, a giant Thingy, who sat in merriment, baring a giant torch, and holding it up high, to shine its light on Zim, who came peeping around the door.

"Come in!" the Ghost exclaimed. "Come in and know me better man…er, man…alien-like thing."

Zim entered timidly, and hung his head before the Spirit. It would have been an unthinkable gesture for the Zim he had been, but though the Spirit's eyes were merry and kind, he did not like to meet them.

"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present!" said the Spirit. "Well, just take a gander!"

Zim did so. The Spirit's large body (it towered over Zim) seemed to be a white jumpsuit, rimmed with blue that rippled with muscle. The body's oddity was explained, when Zim saw the Spirit's head—a giant pink Earthworm with one black eye and one large green eye, who merely appeared to be _in _the suit. Around its body was a belt, and hanging on the right side was a large red gun. It was clothed in a green robe bordered with white fur, and on its head was a wreath made of holly.

"Bet you've never seen anything like me, eh?"

Zim shook his head. "No, never."

The Spirit chuckled. "Thought so." Then, its expression suddenly grew furious, and it grabbed its gun, pointing it at Zim and pinning him against the wall. "But how many of my brothers have you scorned, mocked, ignored and done other umbrage to, huh, vile extraterrestrial villain?! Evil fiend!! WHITE-COLLAR ALIEN!!!!"

"I don't know, I don't know!" Zim said quickly. "Zim has never met any of your brothers!" Looking for a change in topic, he asked, "H-how many brothers do you have?"

"Hm?" Putting its gun back, the Spirit put its finger to…well, where its chin would be, in thought. "No one's ever asked me that before. Well, let's see…there's Blik, Waffle, Peter…oh yeah, there's Jackson, guy who claimed he was a woman in a man's body. Silly fellow, worms are asexual." After a few more seconds of muttering, the Spirit seemed to give up and said, "Well, offhand I don't know, but there are at least eighteen hundred of 'em."

Zim's eyes widened. "Eighteen…eighteen hundred?!" _Almighty Tallest, I thought we Irkens reproduced quickly!_

"Yep, ma sure is frisky. Makes another brother every Christmas," the Spirit said, its anger evidently forgotten.

Zim looked at the Spirit. "Spirit…while I did not enjoy the things I saw last night, I realize now that they were for my own good. Therefore…Zim is ready to go forth and learn with you."

The Spirit clapped its hands together. "Groovy! Past did his job! We were all a little worried about him—you might not have noticed, but he's a few bulbs short of a socket. Well, enough witty banter." The spirit arose, and walked over to Zim. "Touch my robe and we'll be off!"

Zim did so, and as all the Spirit's feast disappeared, he heard its voice. "You've already known how unhappy life can be—ya just needed to be reminded. But now, it's time to leave Weeping River and set sail for Happy Harbor! And I'm just the apparition to help you, because among my other various interests…I Like Life!!! Hmmm…that's a catchy saying. Someone should write a song about it." As the Spirit's voice stopped, Zim could see again, and found that they were both upon the streets on Christmas morning, where the people made a rough, but not unpleasant music, in scraping the snow from their pavements and their roofs. In the latter case the younger ones squealed with delight seeing it plumping into the road below, creating a sort of artificial snowstorm.

By all rights, such a scene should not have induced happiness. The houses were black, and the windows blacker, made even more so contrasted against the white snow. The sky was gloomy and the streets were choked up with a dingy mist. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet there was an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and the brightest summer sun could not have changed.

For the people shoveling on their rooftops were happy and full of glee, calling out to one another and, every now and then, tossing a snowball at one another, laughing whether it hit or not. The poulterers' shops were still half open and the fruiters were radiant in their glory. There were great round pots of chestnuts shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen hanging at the doors. There were brown-faced Friars who winked at nearby girls, and glanced meaningfully at the hanging mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers" benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner.* Even the fish set forth among those fruits in a bowl sensed happenings in the outside world and swam around their little world in slow and pointless excitement.

The Grocers were nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, but such scenes through the gaps. Not just that the sales descending on the counters made a merry sound, or that twine and roller parted company so briskly or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, clashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humor possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas doves to peck at if they chose. *

Soon, however, the steeples called all good people to church and chapel, and away they went, parading down the street in their best clothes with their happiest faces. At the same time, scores of people emerged carrying dinners to the baker shops. Zim stared at the scene in wonder.

"I never realized…I just always passed by these streets. I never saw such wonderment…"

"Uh oh!" Zim's gaze went to the Spirit who was staring at a series of dinner-carriers—a series that had crashed straight into each other, and had begun arguing. His eyes narrowed. "Un-Christmas like spirit…NOT ON MY WATCH!" The Spirit grabbed his gun and poured some spiced into it, spice that came from his torch. Then, to Zim's shock, the Spirit suddenly began blasting with a mad look in his eyes. "EAT HOLIDAY CHEER IRRITABLE MORTALS!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!"

The blasts the Spirit fired madly hit the arguing people…and suddenly, they stopped, said it was a shame to quarrel on Christmas Day, and helped each other with the dropped food.

In time, the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; still there was a genial shadowing of all these dinners and their cooking, as smoke arose from the chimneys.

The Spirit examined his torch. "Nuts, that last act of senseless holiday violence used up my ammo. Gonna have to restock." He put the gun away, and then took his head out of the suit and squeezed it—yes, squeezed his head—until a slime-like secretion poured out into the torch. He then turned to Zim. "Oh, almost forgot about you." At a wave of his finger, a leg of turkey appeared and the Spirit poured his spice (evidently the torch converted the slime to spice) onto the food. He held the turkey out. "Try it."

Zim stared at the Spirit in incredulous disgust. "You're joking."

"C'mon, eat up! Got lots of protein! It's good for you!"

"ZIM agreed to travel with you, not eat filthy worm slime!"

"C'mon! In comes the choo-choo, open up the tunnel…"

"No!"

"Eat it!"

"NO!"

The Spirit grabbed his gun again. "EAT OR I BLAST YOU!"

"Okay, okay!" Taking the meat, Zim shuddered and took a very small bite, expecting a revolting taste to pass his mouth—but the taste that followed was, in a word, divine. Before he knew it, he had eaten the entire leg, and gave a sigh of deep contentment.

"That…was the most delicious thing Zim has ever tasted! Spirit, does that slime-spice work on any food?"

"As long as it's kindly given—to a poor soul the most of course."

"Why a poor soul the most?"

"Because it needs it most."

"But Spirit," Zim said, for he remembered something that contradicted the Spirit's words, "if you and your kind care for the poor souls so much, why do you seek to cause them misery?"

"EXCUSE ME?!" the Spirit turned about with a look of anger on his face.

"W-well," Zim continued nervously, "you seek to close the places where they dine every Seventh Day, often the only day they can dine. At least, it has been done in your name and—UEEK!" The Spirit had grabbed Zim by the throat.

"Listen buddy! There are people on your Earth who _claim_ to know us and use our names to justify their own acts of pride, hatred, bigotry, greed and various other evil nouns! Charge those doings on them, not us! Get it?"

"Got it," Zim croaked.

"Good." Dropping Zim, he suddenly conjured an ice cream cone. "Frozen yogurt—my favorite." Quickly eating it, the Spirit suddenly froze, and then shouted, "BRAIN FREEEZE!!! AHHHHH!! AHHHHH!!!" He began madly running around in circles grabbing its head.

I don't know whether it was this sight itself, or that this sudden action came on right after the Spirit had been strangling him, but for the first time since before he could remember, Zim let a small chuckle escape his lips—not a maniacal sadistic cackle, but a genuine, good-willed chuckle.

After the Spirit recovered ("What a rush!" he exclaimed) the two continued on invisible, into the suburbs of the town. Remarkably, as Zim had previously noticed at the bakery, the Spirit could fit himself into any space, despite his large size; there he stood beneath a low roof as comfortably as he would have in a lofty hall. Perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit took in this power of his, or his own kind nature and sympathy with all poor men (or it might have been, as he said, his "four hyper-intelligent brains") that led them to their destination.

"Well," he announced, "we're here."

Zim looked at the house. "And where is here?"

The Spirit shook his finger reprovingly. "Tsk, tsk. Not too good at human-relations are ya, Mr. Boss-man? Don't even know where your own employee lives."

Zim started. "This…is Runt's house?" Trotting to the window, his eyes raised in question at the sight of a small gray cat with a haughty, but pretty look in her eyes. "Who's that?"

"That'd be his wife, Rita."

"Oh, his…" Suddenly he stopped and stared at the Spirit with a look of thunderous shock. "HIS WIFE?! But she's…and he's…and they're…"

The Spirit shrugged. "Perfectly understandable reaction, my friend. Ya know, it's times like these where I don't envy the higher-ups—not even sure how they handle that kind of breeding." While Zim's astounded mind was still trying to register this information, the Spirit merrily sprinkled some of its spice upon the poor-looking house. Think of that; Runt who earned but fifteen shillings a week, Runt who had the intelligence of a rock, and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house.

Then up rose Rita, dressed out in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons and made a pleasant show for six pence, and she laid the cloth, aided by brown-furred cat Belinda, second of her daughter, also brave in ribbons. Meanwhile, gray-furred dog Peter plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (Runt's property, conferred upon his eldest son and heir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced his gallant apparel, and longed to show it off in the Parks. And two smaller puppies, one male, the other female, galloped in, screaming about the goose they had smelt from the bakers, and praising Peter, while the young canine blew the fire proudly until bubbling potatoes knocked loudly to be freed.

"Where the heck _is _that dog?" Rita mused. "And Pussyfoot?" Hearing mournful growling, Rita rolled her eyes at a large brown bulldog looking nervously at the window. "C'mon Marc; it's not like they've been kidnapped or anything. Pussyfoot's fine. I'm more worried about Martha; she's never been late."

"Right here, Mama," a girl said as she entered. Although she was a dog, she had clearly gained her mother's beauty.

"She's here! She's here!" The two puppies chanted.

Rita embraced her and kissed her, saying, "Where _were _you? Moms have a nasty habit of assuming the worst ya know."

"Sorry Mama. We had a great deal of work to finish last night and had to clear it up this morning."

"It's okay kid, as long as you're here. C'mon, sit by the fire—you look frozen!"

"No, no!" the little ones shouted. "Father's coming! Hide Martha!" Giggling, Martha hid, and Runt entered, with at least three feet of scarf exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him, and his dirty and threadbare clothes seasoned up for the season. Sitting on top of him was a small black cat, who wore a perfectly content look on his face, despite the small iron frame he bore and the crutch under his arm.

Runt laughed as the little ones surrounded him in joy, and Pussyfoot giggled as his silly Uncle Marc Anthony snuggled up against him, glad for his safety. Runt looked around. "Uh, where's Martha?"

"Sorry, she's not here," said Rita, with a wink.

Catching on, Runt adopted a fake pout. "Awww…not here on Christmas? That's sad, definitely definitely sad."

Even in jest, Martha hated to see her father sad, so she ran out of hiding and into his arms, while the two young ones grabbed Pussyfoot and took him into the kitchen, that he may hear the pudding singing in the copper, closely followed by Uncle Marc of course.

After Martha had finished, Rita drew herself near her husband. "And how was the squirt, Runt?"

"Aw, he was good, definitely good. He thinks about a lot of stuff sittin' in the pews, definitely; he told me he hoped the people saw him at church. It might do 'em good to remember who made lame beggars walk and blind men see. Yep, definitely good."

Rita smiled, and wiped a small tear. "Kids say the darndest things."

As Pussyfoot's crutch was heard upon the floor, he was escorted by his siblings to a small stool before the fire. As Runt mixed some kind of drink with gin and lemons, Peter, eagerly aided by the puppies went to fetch the goose.

You would have thought a goose to be the rarest of all birds from the bustle that family made—and to that good family, it was. Rita made the gravy hissing hot in a little saucepan, Peter pounded the potatoes with incredible vigor, Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce, Martha and Uncle Marc dusted the hot plates, Runt took Pussyfoot beside him in a tiny corner at the table, and the two young ones set the chairs, not forgetting themselves. Setting guard, they crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they shriek for goose before their turn and earn a scratch from their mother.

At last, the dishes were set, and grace was said. All stared breathlessly as Rita looked along the carving-knife, preparing to plunge it into the bird's breast; when she did and the stuffing gushed forth, a murmur of delight arose from around the table, and even the feeble Pussyfoot cheered for joy.

There never was such a goose. Runt said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, Rita announced that they were hardly done with it. But all had had enough, and the plates were changed by Belinda, while Rita—not wanting to bear witness to the worst-case scenario—went to fetch the pudding. At that point, the young puppies busied themselves with frightening fantasies of if their pudding was not done right or stolen.

And now, a great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that. That was the pudding. In half a minute Rita entered with a tired, but proud smirk and the pudding, like a speckled cannon ball blazing with brandy and decorated with Christmas holly on the top.

A wonderful pudding Runt declared with many a "definitely"—he went so far as to consider it her greatest success achieved since their marriage. Rita playfully scratched his nose at that comment, replying that she'd had her doubts about the quantity of flour. All members had their opinion about that, but none said it was too small for such a large family—such a comment would have been heresy.

At last the dinner was done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug was tasted and deemed divine, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts were put above the fire. All the family drew round the hearth in what Runt called a circle (actually only half a circle) while he distributed the family glass. Plain they might have been, but they held drink quite as well as golden goblets.

As the drink was poured, Runt proposed: "Merry Christmas to all of us! God bless us."

All the family re-echoed.

"God bless us, every one!" said Pussyfoot, in the first words Zim had heard him say.

He sat close to his father's side upon his stool, and Runt drew him close, in both loving care, and fear that the world would take him away.

Zim stared upon the small cat, with an interest he had never felt before. "Spirit," he said in a very small voice, "the Pussyfoot Earthling…he will live, won't he? His illness isn't serious, is it?"

"Welllll…future isn't really my department but…" The Spirit closed his eyes, then spoke in completely serious and grave voice. "I see a vacant seat, in the chimney-corner, and a tiny crutch without an owner, tenderly preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered…" He stopped. Zim's eyes widened in horror.

"No Spirit, that cannot be!" he exclaimed. "Such a pure and loving child…surely you and your kind would not be so cruel."

"It has nothing to do with my kind, bub—that's what'll happen if the shadows are unchanged." He stared at the Irken with a hard gaze. "Besides, from what I've heard, this planet could do with a few less 'filthy putrid Earth scum.'"

Zim recoiled as though the Spirit had slapped him. What had sounded so clever and superior in his office sounded blasphemous in the presence of such a clean soul.

The Spirit's eyes softened slightly upon seeing Zim's misery. "Look, you can't say something like that until you know what 'too much life' is. Do you have the right to decide when life will end or whose life will end? In the sight of Heaven, a man who thinks like that is more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor child."

Zim sunk low underneath the Spirit's rebuke, his trembling eyes upon the ground. But he rose when he heard his name.

"Mister Zim!" Runt declared, a little tipsy with his blend. "A toast to Mister Zim, the Founder of the Feast; yep, definitely the founder."

"Founder of the Feast, my tail!" Rita exclaimed, and Zim winced. "I wish that green slime was here right now; I'd give him a piece of my _mind_ to feast on. He's lucky he ain't here, or I'd use him as a scratching post."

"Aw, c'mon Rita. It's Christmas Day."

Rita scoffed. "Well it has to be Christmas to even think about drinking to a stingy old person like him. And don't argue Runt; you know it's true! Heck, no one knows better than you!"

"But…Christmas Day…" Rita sighed.

"Fine, if it'll make you happy…and it _is _Christmas Day after all. Long life and a Merry Christmas to Mister Zim."

The children and Uncle Marc drank the toast after her; it had become a ritual that none of them, even little Pussyfoot cared for. Zim had become an Ogre amongst the family, and the mere mention of his name cast a shadow that dampened their spirits for a full five minutes.

After it passed however, they were ten times merrier, from the relief of Zim the Baleful being done with. Runt declared that he had found a delightful situation for Peter which would bring in five or six pence weekly. The two young ones giggled at the thought of their brother in business, but Peter looked thoughtful, as though he was wondering how to invest that staggering income. Martha told them about her job as a poor miller's apprentice, about her holiday tomorrow, and about how she had seen a countess and a lord—the latter of who was about as tall as Peter. This caused a great laugh, and Peter, pulled his large collars over his head to conceal his embarrassment. Then the chestnuts went around and they had a merry song from Pussyfoot about a lost child in the snow; he sang it very well.

There was nothing of high mark about this. They were not a handsome family; they were not well-dressed, their shoes were not waterproof, their clothes were scanty and Peter likely knew the inside of a pawnbroker's. But they were happy, which was more than Zim, who watched them eagerly, could say with all his money. And when they faded and looked happier still in the sprinklings of the Spirit's torch, Zim kept his eyes upon them to the last, and especially upon Pussyfoot.

"Time for fast travel—we've got lots to see!" The Spirit somehow pulled a rocket from inside his pocket, and jumped on, and Zim reluctantly did the same. It was dark now as they zoomed over the sky, and the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens and parlors was wonderful. The flickering saw preparations for cozy dinners, and children ran outside to meet their arriving married sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts…anyone. The Spirit sprinkled blessings upon the entire scene, and the very lamplighter laughed out loudly as the Spirit's invisible rocket zoomed by.

And now, they suddenly arrived upon a bleak desert moor, where masses of rude stone were cast about and frozen water abounded.

"Where are we Spirit?" Zim inquired.

"Mines. People who labor deep in the earth live here. But they know me, look."

A light shone from a hut, and the two advanced towards it and passed through it, seeing an old man and woman, as well as their children, and their children's children, and their children's children's children. The old man sang in a voice that barely rose above the howling winds,--he sang a Christmas song popular when he was a boy, and all joined in the chorus from time to time.

The Spirit did not tarry but instead blasted onward, towards—the sea. Zim gaped in horror and tried to object, but his arguments were drowned by the loud winds and thunder upon the water.

Upon a rock a league or two away, a solitary lighthouse sat. Two men sat within, making a fire to light the darkness caused by the gale. The season was not lost upon them, as they drank grog, and the elder sang a song rather like a gale himself.

Again they sped on, above the black and lighting sea, until they spotted a ship, miles away from any shore. There was a helmsman on board, a look-out, officers who were little more than gloomy shadows. Yet every man had a Christmas tune or a Christmas thought, and gave each other friendlier words than on any other day of the year.

It was a great surprise to Zim, while listening to the sounds of the sea, and thinking about Christmas far away from home, to hear a great and merry laughter. It was a greater surprise to recognize it as his own nephew's, and to find himself in a bright and dry room, with the Spirit gazing upon Zim's nephew with an approving smile.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" I should like to point out that I have never heard a man who laughed merrier than Zim's nephew.

Now disease and sorrow are infectious things, but they fail before the spreading power of laughter. Thus, as Zim's nephew laughed, his niece by marriage began to laugh, and soon, all their friends (who appeared to be assorted aliens and a few humans) began to laugh.

"HA HA HA HA HA HA!"

"He said Christmas was a humbug!" cried Zim's' nephew. "Poor guy actually believes it too! And he doesn't even know what a humbug is!"

"Well, that's his loss, Skoodge," Zim's niece commented. "Just proves he's crazy."

"Oh come on, Zita, he's really quite funny," Skoodge commented. "I know he's not very pleasant, but his offenses have their own punishment, so I won't say anything against him."

"Guess he doesn't need to be pleasant when he's rich, huh?"

Skoodge waved his hand dismissively. "True, but what good does his money do? He doesn't even spend it on himself," here he chuckled, "and Lord forbid he should ever treat us with it!"

"I'm sorry Skoodge, but I just don't have any patience with him." The other ladies in attendance agreed.

"Oh I do. I'm sorry for him; it's just impossible for me to be angry at him, no matter how many times he blasts me. He's the one who really suffers from his ill whims; he insists on disliking us. To him, I suppose it would be silly to attend this party—he doesn't lose much of a dinner."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Zita inquired, a nasty smirk growing. "I _did _oversee all the cooking, so I think the dinner is VERY good." Everybody else said the same.

Skoodge, in playful helplessness said, "I just don't have much faith in these housekeepers. Well what do you say Marvin?"

The short Martian clad in a Roman headdress said, "Well, I don't believe my opinion matters, since I'm a bachelor. Perhaps someone could solve that—wouldn't that be lovely?" He winked, and a rather plump Irken maid, who Marvin had been eyeing, blushed.

"C'mon, Skoodge, you might as well finish what you were saying," said Zita.

Skoodge chuckled, and the contagious laughter spread. "All I said is that if Uncle Zim is set on disliking us, he loses pleasant moments which do him no harm. He certainly loses more pleasant companions than he can find in his own thoughts. But I mean to give him the same chance every year—I pity him. He may call Christmas a 'stinky Earth holiday' but he can think no less of it, or me, if he finds me coming year after year in a pleasant mood, to invite him. If it convinces him to leave his clerk fifty pounds, that's accomplishment enough. Besides, I think he's weakening." All laughed at him and his ludicrous idea, but not caring what they laughed at so long as they laughed, he laughed as well.

After tea came music. They were a very musical family, and knew how to sing, especially Marvin, whose comically deep voice made a welcome bass. Zita played well upon the harp, and among other music, Zim could hear a certain air familiar to the girl who had fetched him at school-time, as shown by the Ghost of Christmas Past. As the music played, and all the images of what he had seen came upon his mind, Zim softened more and more, thinking that if he had listened to such music more, he might have gained such kindness to guarantee his own happiness.

But they didn't dedicate the evening to music; there were games as well. First came Blind Man's Buff, and the star of the game was Marvin, who was no more truly blind than he had eyes in his boots. Rather cheerfully insulting to common sense, he continually chased after the plump Irken maid; if he had caught you, he would have purposely taken you to be furniture and pursued the maid again. At her half-hearted complaints of cheating, Marvin replied, "Untrue assumptions make me so angry! Very angry indeed!" and finally caught her. Playfully, he pretended not to know who it was, touching her head-dress, and pressing a ring upon her finger. Doubtless she told him her opinion of these vile acts, as when another blind man had been chosen, they were rather confidential behind the curtain.

Zita sat at a large chair and footstool in amusement, and joined in when Blind Man was over. At the game of How, When and Where, she beat her sisters hollow, to the secret joy of Skoodge—and they were sharp girls, as anyone could have told you. They all played, twenty people or more, and so did Zim, forgetting that he was invisible and inaudible; he often shouted his guess quite loud. Indeed, there was an almost childlike joy in his eyes.

The Spirit was very happy to see Zim in this greatly improved mood; indeed, the Irken begged like a boy to stay until the guests left. But this, the Spirit said, could not be done.

"Look, another game! A half hour, Spirit, just a half-hour!"

It was a game called Yes or No where Skoodge had to think of something, and rest had to guess what it was, only being allowed to answer yes or no. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last, the plump maid burst into laughter and shouted,

"I know! I know! It's your Uncle Zim!"

It was, and all admired the concept (though some, chiefly Marvin, complained that the bear question should have been "yes).

"Yes, well, let's not get carried away. My uncle, whether he knows it or not, has give us great merriment, and so I drink to him. To Uncle Zim."

"To Uncle Zim!" all replied.

Zim's momentary anger at being mocked immediately melted into an immense gratification and joy. I have no doubt that if allowed, he would have stood up and delivered a grand speech communing his gratitude, completely forgetting that he couldn't be heard. But the scene disappeared at the last word of his nephew, and again he and the Spirit were on their travels.

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Zim his precepts.

It was a long night, though Zim doubted it was only a night because Christmas Holidays appeared condensed into the time they traveled together. Zim suddenly noticed that the Spirit appeared bent, with white hair adorning his eyes and he held a cane.

"Spirit…are you _aging_?"

"Huh? What? Speak up! Lousy young 'ins, with their mutterings and IPods…" Grabbing a hearing horn, he put it up to where his ear would be. "Whatcha' wanna know?"

"You _are _aging. Is your life so short?"

"We only spend one night on this earth. Mine will end tonight."

"Tonight?!" Zim exclaimed.

"Yep, at the stroke of midnight. Ooh, almost out of time, listen." The bell was already ringing three quarters past eleven.

Zim gazed down in sadness—and then looked up. "Spirit—I see something protruding from your skirts. It looks like a claw."

"Oh yeah, almost forgot about them. Might as well look." He drew aside his robe, and Zim jumped back in disgust.

Staring at the Spirit, in a pleading position, were two children, one boy, one girl, both dressed in tattered remains of blue suits, and showing peculiar shading upon their faces. But such children! They were scowling and wolfish, but prostate in their humility. Where a youthful hand should have been, a shriveled claw protruded, and where angelic orbs might have sat, devilish orbs glared outward. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.*

Zim gulped. He tried to say they were fine children, but his lips closed themselves rather than be host to lies of such magnitude.

"A-are they yours Spirit?"

"Nope, they're Man's. The boy is Ignorance, the girl is Want. Beware of both of them, but especially the boy for I see Doom upon his brow unless the writing is erased."

Zim stared at them again. "But…don't they have any shelter?"

"Aren't there any of your Earth prisons?" the Spirit said, turning his words on him for the last time. "Or poorhouses?"

The bell struck twelve.

Zim looked around for the Spirit, but saw nothing. But as the last stroke stopped, he remembered again the Brain's words, and lifting up his eyes, saw a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, gliding before him.

* * *

Dang, that was a lot of work! You have no idea how hard it was to think of a good Tiny Tim character—especially when limited to a dog or cat. There are too many characters in this chapter, so I just used the ones from the book. I also used the same names for the children (except for Tiny Tim), since there was no way I could find characters to match all of them.

Anyway I hope you enjoy! And please review!


	4. Stave 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing; not any of the cartoon characters, nor A Christmas Carol.

I should have said this in an earlier chapter, but one of the jokes involving the Past Ghost (the "TASTES LIKE CHICKEN" line) wasn't made up by me; my little sister, who absolutely adores him, thought of it. So thank her if you laughed at it!

And now, onto the next chapter!

* * *

Stave 4

The Last of the Spirits

As the Phantom approached, slowly, silently, gravely, Zim bent down upon his knee; the very air in which the Spirit moved seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. And as the Spirit approached, a large gust of wind suddenly blew by. Bizarrely, for one second, Zim could have sworn he heard words in that wind:

"IIIIIIT'S SHOW TIME!!!"

But it passed so fast and left no trace, that Zim was sure he had imagined it. Nervously, he looked upon the Spirit.

The Spirit was shrouded in a black and white striped robe that covered almost its entire form. One hand was uncovered, a hand that seemed to have blood-red painted fingernails, leading to purple skin. Not purple colored, but purple as in decaying flesh; somehow however, despite its color, it was difficult to tell it from the darkness that surrounded it. Of its face, Zim saw a great black space, of which he could see nothing but some strands of filthy yellow hair, a pair of yellow eyes gleaming with malice, and a mouth filled with rotting green teeth (that Zim saw, to his disgust, was crawling with beetles) permanently barred in a demonic grin. Aside from these features, Zim could feel that it was tall and stately, and that its presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither moved nor spoke.

He gulped. "Z-Z-Zim is in the presence," he said, "of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, yes?"

The Spirit answered not, but pointed downward with its hand.

"I-If so, you are here to show Zim shadows of things that have not yet happened, but will happen in the time before us. That is so, yes?"

The upper portion of the garment was inclined for a second, as if the Spirit had given a small nod. That was the only answer he received.

Though by no means a stranger to ghostly visitors at this point, Zim feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled before him, and he could hardly stand as he prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused, as though it had observed his condition, and was giving him time to recover.

But this made things worse for Zim. It was terrifying to think of a great unknown face staring upon him with those horrible eyes, while he could see only blackness.

"Ghost of the Future!" he exclaimed. "I fear you more than any other specter I have met! But I know that like the others, you only wish to do me good; and so, as I am willing to be a different man from what I was, I am ready to follow your guidance. Soooo…speak to Zim." There was no response. "SPEAK TO ZIM!"

The Spirit still did not answer, but again pointed, this time to the space ahead of them.

"Uh? Oh yes, yes…the night is waning fast, and time is precious to me. Lead on Phantom, lead on!"

The Phantom moved away, as it had come towards him, and Zim trailed along in the shadow of its dress.

Before Zim had realized it, they had entered the city; rather, the city seemed to spring up in front of them. Not just in the city, but amongst the merchants and businessmen, who hurried up and down the streets, money chinking in their pockets, stopping to converse in large groups, looking at their watches and trifling with their gold seals, as Zim had often seen.

The Spirit stopped among a particularly odd looking group. Among it was an old looking duck with a beard, dressed in a kilt and pompom hat, an old thin woman dressed in black who both looked and sounded like a snake, a balding middle aged man dressed in a blue suit with brown hair, a large hump and a cigar, and a similar dressed man only smaller and rounder, with white hair instead of brown. Zim recognized them all; he dealt with them in business regularly.

"Nah, I dunna much about it," said the duck, in a heavy Scottish accent. "All I know is that he's dead."

"When'd he die?" asked the small man.

"Last night I think."

"What did the doomed fool die of?" hissed the woman. "Something deadly I take it? Malaria, pneumonia—smallpox, perhaps?"

"Beats me," said the duck with a yawn.

"Well," said the large humped man, "I don't particularly care _why_ he's gone. All I wanna know is what he's done with his money."

The duck shrugged. "Who knows? He didn't leave it to me, that's all I know." He scowled. "More's the pity—I'd have beaten McDuck for sure with that much money…."

"Well," said the woman, "he's likely to have a cheap funeral. Even amongst all the doomed fools I've met, I don't know _anyone_ who would want to attend."

"I'll go if they have lunch," said the large humped man. "Heck, maybe I can talk them into cancelling the funeral and just have lunch." This elicited a laugh from the others. Zim shuddered; after spending time amidst the merry laughter of Skoodge and his party, he found this laughter cold and stifling.

"Well, I'll tell you all something," said the duck. "I have less reason to go than the lot of ya; I avoid funerals as a rule, and I'm on a strict diet. But I _will _go, if no one else wants to. Now that I think about it, I was probably his best friend; he used to insult me every time we met!" They all laughed at that and scattered into other various groups.

Zim looked at the Spirit for an explanation, but it instead glided onto the street and pointed towards two more people meeting. Zim looked onward.

He knew these people as well; one was a woman with orange hair, the other a man with blue hair. They were also fellows of business; indeed, very rich, and Zim had always made sure to stay high in their esteem (in business sense only of course).

"Hello Butch," said the woman. "How are you doing?"

"Fine Cassidy. How 'bout you?"

"Well enough. I heard _he _finally died."

"You don't say. Sure is cold, isn't it?"

"Typical Christmas weather. I don't suppose you skate?"

"No, but I'm thinking of learning. Well, see you later."

Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting.

Confused, Zim was about to ask the Spirit what these trivial conversations had to do with him, but looking upon it, he lost his courage, and instead dwelled on their hidden meaning himself. They could not be talking about the Brain, for that was Past, and this was Future. And he could think of no one else connected to him that he could apply these words to.

_Still_, he thought, _they must have some hidden meaning. Zim shall listen to all words, especially the words of Future ZIM. Doubtless that will solve the mystery._

He looked about in that place for his future image but a small yellow hamster stood in his usual corner, and though the clock signaled his usual time for being there, he saw no sign of likeness of himself among the multitude.

Anxiously, he thought, _V-very well, so Future Zim is not here. A-all the better—it means Zim has deviated from his behavior, and is following through moral changes._ Zim's train of thought was derailed by the Spirit, who, looking upon him, its fiendish eyes inside its blackness chilled him, and made contemplation impossible.

It lead him away from the scene before them and into an obscure part of town, a part Zim had never seen, though, seeing the sight before him, he was sure he didn't want to. The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offenses of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery. *

Inside this thieves den was an old, ramshackle shop, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were bought. Upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets that few would like to scrutinize were bred and hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchers of bones.* Sitting among his wares near a charcoal stove made of bricks, was a duck dressed in a yellow costume and a red hat, with a mask around his eyes, which seemed set in a perpetual scowl. Impatiently, he strummed his fingers among the stove, but no sooner had they entered, when a bell rang, and he shot up growling, "Finally!"

As the shop's door opened, another duck walked in holding a bag; an older female duck with black hair and a black dress. But she scarcely entered when another figure followed; a young teenage girl with red hair and a green shirt, also holding a bag. And she too had just entered before the entrance of another figure, a boy with glasses and black and white striped hair again holding a bag. The three looked at each other, and then burst into laughter.

"Okay hyenas," the costumed duck said, "line up and present your goods! What do ya have for Negaduck?"

"Is hard to believe darling," said the female duck with a heavy accent. "Negaduck, the most evil super villain ever, running simple thieves shop!"

Negaduck shrugged. "Supervillany ain't so profitable these days…no thanks to Dipwing Dork. In troubled times like these, we just gotta' find a way to take care of ourselves. The stiff you robbed thought like that too."

"How true darling. Is getting harder and harder to steal Scrooge's lucky Number One Dime."

"Weapons to destroy Dexter's lab don't buy themselves," added the boy.

"And my babysitting service ain't doing so well either," finished the girl. "But hey, we get to rob a dead person! That's nasty enough for me!"

Negaduck cleared his throat. "Alright, alright, enough career complaining. Present your goods and I'll see what they're worth."

The boy stepped forth. "I'll go first!"

"I don't think so, twerp!" said the girl, shoving him out of the way. "Ladies first!"

"And age before beauty darling!" said the duck pushing her. Before long, the argument had devolved into fighting.

"I'll go first!!"

"NO, ME!"

"STUPID BRATS, I GO FIRST!!!"

"SHUDDUP!!!!" roared Negaduck, grabbing a chainsaw and revving it up. That stopped the thieves' squabbling. "The dork goes first, Red goes second and the hag goes last! And if you nubs want to argue, you can talk to Mister Hack and Slash!!" Gulping, the three dashed into a line, with the boy putting his bag on the ground.

"Well let's see…" muttered the boy rummaging through the bag. A seal or two, a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons and a brooch of no great value. Negaduck chalked up the sum he would pay for each item and added them up when he found there was no more.

"There's your account," he said, "and consider yourself lucky, dork. If times weren't so bad, I wouldn't pay a penny for your junk." The boy seemed to want to protest, but upon seeing the potentially murderous luck in the duck's eyes, he though better of it.

The red-haired teenager was next. Sheets and towels, a few clothes, two old fashioned teaspoons, a pair of sugar tongs and a few boots. Her account was totaled in the same manner.

"Negaduck the junk monger," muttered Negaduck. "Dr. Slug would never let me live this down…neither would Dorkwing.

"And now, my turn darling," said the female duck.

Negaduck opened her bag, and after unfashioning a great many knots, brought out a large and heavy roll of dark stuff.

"Bed-curtains?" said Negaduck with a puzzled expression.

"Yes darling. Bed-curtains," said the female duck, who suddenly erupted into wicked laughter. Slowly, a diabolical grin spread across Negaduck's face.

"You didn't…" he said, as though he were himself about to laugh. "You took them down, rings and all, with him _laying_ there?"

"Yes, darling! Why not? He doesn't need curtains!"

Negaduck laughed. "Lady, you're a wicked, nasty and demonic old shrew—but enough compliments!" He continued rummaging through the contents.

"Be careful—don't get oil on blankets."

"You mean—_his_ blankets? You stole his _bed ware_ too?

"Who else's?"

"Hope he didn't die of anything catching."

"Ha! Magica Despell would not loiter among filthy aliens for such things. Ah, and of course, his shirt, his best shirt—very fine. Fools would have wasted it if not for me."

"What do ya mean?"

"Putting it on him, to be buried! Is not sensible. Someone already put it on, but I took it off—calico serves purpose fine. More becoming to the body." She laughed, and Negaduck laughed, and soon the other two thieves laughed as well. Zim listened to this dialogue in horror and disgust—these demons, marketing the corpse itself.

"Ya know, its' funny," said the girl. "Our job's real easy, because no one cares about his body. He scared everyone away when he was alive!"

"AH HA HA! AH HA HA HA! How true," laughed the boy. "And now, his loss is our gain!"

"ENOUGH!" Zim shouted to the Spirit, temporarily forgetting his fear. "I see, Spirit, I see! The case of this unhappy man's life might be Zim's! My life already tends towards that way. Mother of Irk, what's this?!"

He recoiled in fright for the scene had changed and now he almost touched a bed; a bed on which beneath a ragged sheet laid something covered up; something that was mute, and yet pronounced itself in awful language.

As the room was very very dark, Zim could not see where they were, though he tried to, anxious to see what kind of room they were in. A pale light fell straight upon the bed, and on it, plundered, violated, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of the dead man.

Zim glanced at the Phantom, whose hand pointed towards the head, covered so carelessly that the slightest touch would have revealed it. Zim thought of this, and how easy it would be to do, and greatly longed to, but he could no more act than dismiss the grinning Phantom at his side.

Zim looked at the body. _It's alone,_ he thought. _What would this man think if he rose? Would his thoughts be full of the longing to acquire Earth moneys? What good did that do him?_ He looked around the room, seeing only rats. No one was in the room. No one weeping for this man, no one proclaiming his good deeds in life, no one watching over him in eternal vigil. Merely a companion for the rats.

"Please Spirit," Zim said in a small voice. "Zim desires to leave this place, and in doing so, will not leave its lesson."

Still the Spirit pointed towards the head.

"I-I cannot Spirit. I would if I could, but I have not the power to reveal this man."

The Spirit gazed upon him, and Zim looked away, unable to bear those eyes.

"Please Spirit," he said. "If there is anyone who feels anything for this man's death—anything at all—please show that person to me!"

The Phantom drew its striped robe like a wing, and withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight where a mother and her children were.

The mother was young, with black hair, black dress and purple eyes. She was obviously expecting someone, and anxiously at that, for she walked up and down the room, stared out the window, looked at the clock, and could hardly bear the children at play. But at length, a knocking was heard.

Hurrying, she met her husband, a young man with black hair and blue eyes, and a careworn and depressed face; this in spite of him being young. The expression in his face was odd; it was as though he was delighted at something of which he felt ashamed.

"C'mon, sit down Danny," said the woman, leading him to the dinner table. Pausing for a moment, she asked uncertainly, "Well…what's the news?"

The young man sighed. "Bad, Sam."

Her face fell in despair. "Then it's over. He'll take away everything, won't he?"

"No, Sam, we still have hope."

She scoffed. "Only if he lets the debt go…that'd be a real Christmas miracle."

"My bad news was meant for him Sam. He's dead."

Her eyes widened. "Dead?" Soon the same expression came upon her face; a delight mixed with some shame.

The young man nodded. "Yeah. I thought it was just a rumor he made up to avoid me—but it's true. He really is dead."

"Then…where will our debt go?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. But we'll be ready by that time; heck, even if we aren't, we couldn't possibly get a creditor worse than him." The two embraced happily.

Yes, soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter. The children understood little, but their faces rose for their parents' happiness, a happiness brought upon by the man's death. The only emotion felt for his death was happiness.

Zim stared at the Spirit in despair. "Show me some tenderness associated with death," he said miserably, "or that room we left before will haunt Zim forever."

The Ghost led him through several streets familiar to him; even in his miserable state, he looked around, hoping to see his future self, but saw nothing. Soon they arrived at a familiar looking house.

Zim's face brightened. "The house of Runt! A place of laughter and joyous…um, joy!" He ran towards it, through the house…but heard no joyous joy. Only silence. Puzzled, he looked at the Spirit for an answer, who pointed in response.

Quiet. Very quiet. The little puppies were as still as statues, staring up towards Peter, who held a book in his hand. The mother and her daughters sat sewing…but they too, were very quiet.

The girl puppy looked up at her mother. "Mamma…you're crying."

"Huh?" Putting her work down, and wiping her eyes, she put a smile on her face. "Nah, it's just the candle light…hurts my eyes. Wouldn't wanna show weak eyes to your Papa." She looked at the clock. "It should be his time by now."

"Past it actually," said Peter. "But I think he's walked a little slower these past evenings." There was silence again, silence that Rita broke, in a cheerful voice that only faltered once.

"I remember him walking with—with Pussyfoot riding on him. He walked really fast then. Then again, he was a light little squirt—and Papa loved him so much, it probably didn't make any difference." She sighed. "At least he's taking it better than Uncle Marc. Poor guy, he really loved…" But at this point, she stopped, making a choking noise, and turned away to wipe her eyes again.

"Papa…" said Martha. Looking up, the Rita hurried to meet him at the door, and in came Runt, not in a happy gallop, but a slow, mournful trot. As he entered, the two little ones came up to him, and rubbed their cheeks against him, as if to comfort him.

Runt smiled at them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family, praising the sewing work of Rita and the girls (with many a "definitely") and proclaiming that they would be done long before Sunday.

"So…you went today, Runt?" his wife inquired.

He nodded. "Yeah. I wish you'd gone Rita, definitely. It's a nice little green spot, just how—how he'd have liked it. Aw, but you'll see it, definitely—I promised him I—I'd walk—on Sunday." Without warning he suddenly broke down into large sobs. It was nothing shameful—had he not broken down he and his child would have been farther apart than ever.

He left the room and went upstairs into the room above, lighted cheerfully, and hanging with Christmas. A chair, with a tiny crutch without an owner tenderly preserved, sat beside him. The poor dog sat down, and, after a little bit, he composed himself, and went down quite happy.

They drew about the fire and talked, the girls and mother working still. Runt told them of the incredible kindness of "Mister Zim's Nephew" who, meeting him upon the street that day, and seeing that he looked a "just a little down, definitely down," said Runt, when inquired upon his distress. "So I told him, and he said, 'I'm very sorry, Mr. Runt, and sorry for your family and good wife. If I can be of service in anyway' he said and gave me his card, 'you just let me know.'" He sighed. "It wasn't…just what he can do for us, ya know, but the way he said it—it was definitely good, as though he knew our little Pussyfoot."

Rita smiled. "That was really good of him—guess he didn't learn from his uncle."

"Aw, he's definitely nice. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if he got Peter a good job."

"See?" said Rita clasping his paw. "Things are looking up."

"And then," giggled one of the young ones, "Peter will have someone _he _can live with and take care of."

"Aw, come on," said Peter, blushing.

"Well, that's somethin' for another day," said Runt. "But when we leave each other, I know we'll definitely never forget little Pussyfoot, and—and the first one who left us."

"Never, Papa!" cried the children.

"And I know we'll definitely remember how peaceful and quiet he was, and won't fight with each other easily."

"No, never Papa!" they cried again.

"I'm happy," said Runt. "Definitely, definitely happy!"

Rita kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the two young ones kissed him and Peter shook his paw. Spirit of Pussyfoot, thy essence is from God.

"Spirit," said Zim, tears rolling down his face (as he was so distraught, he can be forgiven for not realizing this was the first time he shed tears for someone other than himself), "Zim feels that the time of our parting is at hand—I don't know how, but I do. So tell me the identity of the man who we saw dead."

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him into the resorts of businessmen, but showed not Zim himself. Indeed, it stayed not for anything, but went on, until beseeched by Zim to stop a moment.

"Look, Zim's office! Before we see the man, let me see what I shall be in these days."

But the Spirit's hand pointed elsewhere.

"Eh? Not there? But where else would I be?" But the finger did not change.

Looking in the office's window, Zim saw an office, but not his—the furniture was different, and the same yellow hamster he had seen before sat in his place. The Phantom pointed as before, and he joined it once again, wondering where his future self had gone. Soon they arrived at an iron gate and entered.

A graveyard! Here then, the wretched man whose name he longed to know, lay underneath the ground! A worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life; choked up with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. A worthy place!

The Spirit stood among the graves and pointed to One, and Zim advanced towards it trembling. Though the Spirit was exactly as before, its gleaming eyes and demonic grin the only features in its face full of darkness, Zim dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.

"B-before I look, answer me one question. These shadows—are they things that will be, or things that only might be?"

The Spirit did not answer, but still pointed towards the grave.

"I m-mean—certainly these shadows are inevitable for a certain course. B-but if that course is departed from, the result will be different. T-that is so, isn't it spirit?" There was no answer. "ISN"T IT?!"

The Spirit was as immovable as ever.

Zim crept forward, trembling more violently than he had ever trembled before. Slowly with growing dread, he looked towards the Spirit's finger, and read the words.

ZIM

"T-then, the man who lay on that bed—is me?"

The Spirit pointed towards the grave, than back towards him again.

"NOOO!!!!!!"

Zim leapt to his knees and grabbed the Spirit's cloak. "Spirit!" he cried, "I am not the man I was! I will not be the man I would have been but for this intercourse! Why Spirit?! Why would you show this if Zim was past all hope?!!!"

For the first time since he had met it, the Spirit's fiendish grin disappeared, and its hand began to tremble. Zim stared at it, and his eyes slowly widened in understanding.

"Oh Spirit, I see!" he pursued, tears bursting forth. "Your kind nature, it intercedes for me, and tells me there is hope! Please, tell me that I may change these shadows by changing my life!"

The kind hand trembled.

"I WILL honor Christmas and try to keep it all the year! I will live my life in the Past, the Present, and the Future, and I will NOT shut out the lessons that they have taught me! Tell me that I may sponge out the writing on this stone! TELL ME!!! PLEASE!!!"

In agony, he grabbed the decaying hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty. The Spirit, stronger yet, repelled him.

Holding up his hands in one last prayer, he saw, to his astonishment, the Phantom shrink, collapse, and dwindle down into a bedpost.

* * *

So what do you think? This is a serious chapter, so I'm not sure how well I did it—I'll leave that up to the viewers. So please read and review!


	5. Stave 5

Disclaimer: For the last time, I own none of the cartoon characters, or A Christmas Carol.

This is the last chapter, so enjoy!

* * *

Stave 5

The End of It

Zim stared at the bedpost in dumbfounded shock.

"I'm home…" Slowly his eyes widened with realization. "I'm alive…" Slowly, his mouth turned upwards—not in a sinister smirk, but a joyful, wonderful smile. "I'm alive!" He jumped in wild ecstasy. "I'M ALIVE!!!! YESSSS!!! VICTORY FOR ZIM!!!!!!"

Yes and the bedpost was his own! The bed was his own, the room was his own! Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!

"I WILL live my life in the Past, the Present and the Future!!" Zim shouted, repeating his words to the Spirit. "All three Spirits shall dwell within me! Oh Brain, Heaven and Christmas Time be praised for this! I say it on my knees Brain, on my knees!"

So happy and joyful was he that he could scarcely stop himself from shouting, even if he wanted to. He had been sobbing violently in his confrontation with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears. Being wet, they burned and singed his skin, but so happy was he that he laughed at it.

"The curtains!!! They're here, rings and all!! They're here, and Zim is here, and all is here, here, here!!! The shadows of the Future may yet be dispelled—no, they WILL be dispelled!! Zim shall unleash kindness the likes of which the world has never seen!!! All will bow before my kindness!!" Realizing what he was saying, he burst into laughter; at this point, he felt that his squeedly-spooch would explode with joy.

"What shall I do?! I'm as light as a feather! As happy as an angel! As merry as a schoolboy! As giddy as a drunken man! MERRY CHRISTMAS EARTH!! MERRY CHRISTMAS ALL!!!" Shrieking and laughing, he dashed around his house with a speed the likes of which he had never known.

"Look, look!! The saucepan of Zim's gruel! And there—the door by which the Brain's Ghost entered!! The corner where the Ghost of Christmas Present sat and held his gun up to my throat! The window where I saw all the spirits! IT ALL HAPPENED!! IT"S ALL TRUE!! ALL TRUE I SAY!! HA HA HA HA!!"

Really, for a person who had been out of practice in good laughter for so many years, it was a splendid laugh. The father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs.

"Ha ha…hm, I don't even know what day it is or long I've been among the Spirits—why Zim knows nothing! Quite a smeet I am!" He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang, hammer; ding, dong, bell! Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! Oh, glorious, glorious! *

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious. Glorious! *

"You, boy!" shouted Zim from the window, to a boy he recognized as the same boy that had tried to sing at his office door. Upon seeing him, the large-toothed pink-hatted boy dashed off. "No, no, come back!"

"Why?" asked the boy, stopping. "So you can singe me with your gnomes again?!"

"No, no, I merely require to know something! What is today?"

The boy cocked his head in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"WHAT IS TODAY?"

"It's Christmas Day! Obviously!"

"YES!!" Zim shouted. "I haven't missed it!! The Spirits did it all in one night!! And why not?!! If they can save ZIM, then they can do anything they want!!" The boy raised his eyebrows at the resident miser laughing and dancing like a mad man at this news and bursting forth nonsense found in an asylum.

"Boy, Zim requires something else! Do you know the Poultry shop in the next street at the corner?"

"Well…yeah, I do."

"Good, good! Just what I would expect from such an intelligent boy!" At this, the boy smiled and blushed. "Do you know if they have sold the prize turkey hanging in the window?"

"The one as big as me?"

"Yes, yes, what a wonderful child! Zim is delighted to be talking to you!"

"Heh heh…well it's still there."

"Excellent! Go buy it!"

The boy's smile disappeared. "Oh, ha, ha. Nice punch line. See ya later…"

"ZIM DOES NOT JOKE!!!" Such a shout was certainly enough to make the boy stop. "Listen, buy the turkey and the shop owner, and come back here, and Zim will give you a shilling—no, what am I saying? Come back here in less than five minutes, and Zim will give you half a crown!!"

The boy's eyes widened. "H-h-half a crown?" Suddenly returning to his senses, he shouted, "YES SIR!" and ran off like a shot.

"Zim will send it to Runt's house," Zim whispered, rubbing his hands and laughing. "Ah, but they won't know who sent it—what a surprise I will give! It's twice the size of Pussyfoot!"

The hand that wrote the address was not a steady one, but he wrote it somehow and went downstairs to open his street door, ready for the arrival of the poultry man. As he stood there waiting, his Irken eyes fell upon his knocker.

"I will love and cherish it forever!" he declared. "How could I have merely brushed it off before? Such an honest expression it has, a wonderful knocker—ah, the Turkey!" And what a Turkey it was; its legs would have snapped before it stood up upon them.

"But you can't carry that to Camden Town! You must have a cab! Allow me."

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the Turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried. *

Routine PAK maintenance was not an easy task, for his hand shook very much and such machinery requires attention. I think, however, if he had caused a short circuit and burnt himself to a crisp, he would have laughed and been quite satisfied.

He dressed himself in his best and dashed out into the streets, the people by this time pouring forth, as he had seen with the Ghost of Christmas Present. With a delighted smile on his alien face, Zim greeted each one, and he looked so pleasant that three or four good-humored people said, "Good morning. Merry Christmas!" And Zim said afterwards, that of all the sounds he had ever heard, those were the most delightful.

He hadn't gone far, when who should he spot but Jessie James and Meowth, the three who had walked into his counting house. It was not pleasant to think of how they might receive him, but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.

"Greetings, greetings!" he said, quickening his pace and taking all three by the hands. "I hope you succeeded in your task—it was most kind!"

The three looked at each other in confusion, and Jessie, with a slight scowl on her face inquired, "Mr. Zim…right?"

"Yesss, yesss, I am ZIM! And my business with you is not yet finished! For you and your cause, put me down for…" and he signaled the two humans to kneel, before whispering in their ears. As he did so, their eyes widened.

"T-that much?" James sputtered.

"Yes and no less! A great many back payments are included, I assure you."

Jessie stared at him, her scowl entirely gone. "I-I don't know what to say, Mr. Zim…"

"Say nothing, but that you will come by my office every Christmas! I intend to do the same every year!"

Mewoth smiled in wondrous delight. "W-we will! Thanks Mister Zim, and Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas and thank you, fifty fold! I must be on my way now!" As he dashed off, the three grinned at each other.

"You know what this means," said Jessie.

"We've hit our quota for the first time!" replied James.

"We've finally succeeded! We ain't screw-up's anymore!" finished Mewoth. And as the three skipped off in joy, they declared at once:

"Team Rocket's got a happy ending!"

"Wobbuffet!"

Meanwhile, Zim went to church, and walked about the streets, watching people hurry to and fro, patting children on the head, questioning beggars—everywhere he looked, he derived pleasure from. Never had he dreamed that any walk—that anything—could give him such happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his walk towards his nephew's house.

Passing the door a dozen times before he had the courage to knock, he finally did so, and thus answered an Irken maid.

"Is your master at home?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is he?"

"In the dining room sir, along with the mistress. Shall I show you up stairs?"

"No, that's all right, he knows me," he replied, his hand already on the dining room lock. "May I?"

The maid nodded, and Zim, turning it gently, sidled his face in around the door.

"Skoodge!"

All the merriment and laughter stopped, and all eyes turned towards him. Skoodge's eyes widened in disbelief. "_Uncle?_"

"Y-yes, it is Zim. Would you let me in?"

Let him! It was a wonder he didn't shake his arm off! He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did Marvin when he came. So did the plump maid. So did every one when they came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!

But he was early at the office next morning—oh yesss, he was early! Being there first and finding Runt late would make his performance all the easier.

And it happened just as he had planned. The clock struck nine, no Runt. A quarter past, no Runt. When he finally entered, he was eighteen minutes and a half late. His hat was off before he opened the door, and he dashed to his stool and his pen, as though he was trying to overtake nine o'clock.

"Well," sneered Zim, in the closest imitation of his old voice he could attain, "I see you've deemed punctuality unnecessary.

"I'm sorry Mister Zim, definitely sorry! I was makin' merry yesterday, definitely merry. It won't happen again, defin—"

"Enough," said Zim, and Runt stopped. "Now, Runt clerk-drone, Zim has had as much of this as he can take!"

Runt gulped. "Y-you have?"

"Yes. And therefore," he went straight up to the dog's face, "I am about to triple your salary!"

Runt flinched—and then double-taked. "Wh-wha?" And Zim burst out laughing, and Runt had a momentary impulse of knocking Zim out with his ruler and calling for the men in the white coats.

"Merry Christmas Runt! A Merrier Christmas than Zim has given you in all these years! I'll raise your salary and aid your family! As I understand it, you are struggling, particularly with the matter of your youngest boy?"

Runt gaped. "But…how d'ya…"

"Zim knows all, Runt-worm! I know some very good doctors—the best this planet has to offer, and I am positive that they can help him!"

Runt stared at him in shock—and then, in gratitude, as joyful tears began to trickle downward. "M-Mister Zim—thank you! Definitely, definitely thank you!"

"It's the least I can do! We shall discuss the details this afternoon over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop! But first, buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another _i, _Runt!"

And Zim was better than his word. He did it all and infinity more; and to Pussyfooot, who did NOT die, he became a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city, or any other city, knew. Some laughed at him for his alteration, but he payed them little mind—for he knew that people like that were blind to their own fate, and might as well possess the malady in a more attractive form. His own heart laughed, and that was enough.

He had no more encounters with Spirits, but he lived his life upon the lessons they taught him, and it was often said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas alive, if any man, talking animal or alien possessed the knowledge. May that truly be said of us and all of us! And so, as Pussyfoot observed, GOD BLESS US, EVERYONE!

* * *

And that's the end of my story! I'd just like to thank all those who reviewed this story, especially Zim's Most Loyal Servant, who offered praise and kind words throughout all the chapters. This was a lot of fun, and I hope to do more stories soon.


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